THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME 


BY 


FRANK  L.  DECKER 


LOS  ANGELES,  CALIFORNIA 
1919 


P5 
P 
INDEX 

Page 

Panegyric  4 

To  My  Valentine 5 

The  Silver  Strand  of  Life 6 

Poem  of  the  Pacific 7 

The  Colorado  Columbine 8 

Remotest  Recollections  9 

Beautiful  Bonneville  1 2 

Imparting  to  the  Queen  of  Flowers 13 

Disturb  Not  That  Which  is  at  Rest 14 

Friendship    15 

I  Will  Come  Back  to  Thee 16 

Oft  in  the  Silent  Hours 17 

Lines  Accompanying  a  Floral  Vase 18 

The  Lava  Beds 19 

Lines  Accompanying  the  Gift  of  a  Ring 21 

Daring  Arrow  22 

Sunset  on  the  Desert 23 

My  Twenty-first  Birthday 25 

My  Diamond  Ruby  Ring 27 

Tranquility  of  the  Trees 28 

When  the  Grass  Grows  Green 30 

Home  Without  a  Hostess 31 

In  the  Bay  of  Bengal ., 32 

Satisfaction  and  Soliloquy <i 33 

Here  and  There 34 

California    35 

Farewell  36 

Winter  Winds  37 

Let  Me  Come  Home  in  May,  Mother 38 

The  Lone  Pine 39 

A  Little  Bunch  of  Buffalo  Grass 40 

The  Morning  of  Life 41 

Retrospect   42 

The  Noonday  of  Life 43 

The  Evening  of  Life 45 

February  Fourteenth 47 

Inspiration   48 

Destitution  of  the  Desert 49 

The  Coming  of  Spring 50 


INDEX  — Continued 

Page 

Anticipation  52 

A  Little  Red  Leaf : 54 

Coming  of  Christmas 55 

Poem  of  the  Plains 56 

Mind's  Wandering  58 

Seven  to  Seventy-seven 60 

Pensive  Parting  62 

Tale  of  the  Torrey  Pine 63 

Lines  Accompanying  the  Gift  of  a  Ring 64 

Autumn  in  Arizona 65 

Golden  Wedding  67 

When  I  Miss  Thee  Most 68 

My  Diamond  Ruby  Ring 70 

Dessie  and  His  Dog 71 

The   Coldest   Current 73 

Pleasing  Perplexity  75 

Eight  to   Eighty-eight 76 

When  the  Clouds  Roll  By 78 

Pleasing  the  Public 80 

"Boston  Terrier" 82 

Past  and  Present :..  83 

Land  and  Sea 85 

Caress  of  the  Moon 86 

In  the  Woodland 88 

Thinking  of  Thee 90 

Dawn  of  Day 91 

Course  of  the  Rivers 93 

The  Cat  and  the  Rat 95 

In  the  Realms  of  Roses 97 

Desideratum    99 

Calling    101 

Poem  of  the  Pines 102 

Midnight  on  the  Desert 103 

Review  of  the  Ocean 105 

As  Flows  the  River  of  Life 107 

Tribute  to  the  Apple  Blossoms 109 

Serenity  of  the  Churchyard Ill 

The  Sorrow  of  Separation 113 

Farewell  115 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME 


PREFACE 

If  my  indulgent  friends  these  pages  peruse 

And  accept  them  as  a  friendly  token ; 
I  infer  all  errors  they  will  excuse 
And  concur  in  their  having  been  spoken. 

Then  may  you  revive  the  mem'ry  of  one 
By  reading  these  lines  and  thinking  anew 

Of  him  whose  labor,  perhaps,  is  well  done 
In  leaving  a  friendship  sacred  and  true. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME 


PANEGYRIC 

Of  that  inspiration  my  heart  ever  yearns 
For  the  immortal  Poets  I  most  adore, — 
Longfellow,  Lowell,  Scott,  Byron  and  Burns, 
There  is  none  so  sweet  as  the  works  of  Moore. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME 


TO  MY  VALENTINE 

If  I  could  fly  on  golden  wings  to  India's  distant  isles, 
If  I  could  pick  the  precious  pearls  from  Persia's  distant 
shore ; 

I  would  prefer  by  far  thy  pleasant  looks  and  constant  smiles 
To  all  such  fame  and  all  such  fancies  forevermore. 

I'd  sail  the  seas  of  every  clime  in  search  of  peace  and 
pleasure, 

And  then  return  to  thee  in  time  to  cast  my  lot  with  thine ; 
If  thou  would  impart  to  me  the  secret  of  thy  treasure, 

And  at  last  let  me  claim  thee  as  my  own  sweet  Valentine. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME 


THE   SILVER   STRAND   OF   LIFE 

There  is  that  subtle  something,  known  as  Life, 
Flowing  like  a  river  from  source  to  the  sea, 

Gaining  its  substance  from  turmoil  and  strife, 
Defying  solution  of  its  mystery. 

There  is  a  majesty  in  immortal  mind 
That  God  in  his  eternal  wisdom  gave; 

There  is  a  depth  to  life  we  canont  find 

Throughout  the  way  from  childhood  to  the  grave. 

Beautiful  birds  fly  o'er  the  waving  grain; 

A  hungry  wolf  will  shyly  pace  around, 
While  hybrid  herds  on  the  distant  plain 

Are  slowly  wandering  homeward  bound. 

Squirrels  are  busy  in  their  mirthful  way, 
Gathering  acorns  from  the  old  oak  trees — 

Preparing  in  fall  for  a  rainy  day, 
When  earth  is  chilled  by  Winter's  breeze. 

The  lesson  we  learn  in  animal  life 

Is  sweet  and  simple  and  always  wise — 

It  is  but  a  step  beneath  man  and  wife, 
And  fills  the  law  of  earthly  paradise. 

Thrilled  with  songs  by  day  and  dreams  by  night, 

The  human  mind  is  in  a  happy  state, 
That  believes  whatever  is,  is  right; 

And  good  does  good,  if  it  comes  not  too  late. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

Youth  looks  forward  to  "happy  tomorrow" 
With  the  romance  of  life  it  will  unfold; 

But  man  feels  the  keenness  of  sorrow 
And  joys  that  are  lost  when  he  becomes  old. 

In  summing  up  the  title  of  these  lines, 
Mem'ry  conveys  me  to  many  sad  scenes; 

But  in  sorrow  and  trouble  man  inclines 
To  depend  on  God  for  adequate  means. 

Chicago,  Illinois,  October  6,   1910. 


POEM  OF  THE  PACIFIC 

O!  wild  and  restless  waves  of  the  sea, 
Vast  and  endless  as  the  heavens  above; 

Sickness  and1  misery  imparting  to  me 
As  you  bear  me  away  from  friends  I  love. 

Wave  after  wave,  rolling  half  mountain  high, 
Lost  in  the  distance  on  the  glistening  crest, 

Where   sunlights  glimmer,   and  the  sad  winds  sigh 
Over  the  ocean's  awful  heaving  breast. 

Measureless  depths  that  no  plummet  can  sound, 
Restless  and  raging  the  blue  billows  foam, 

Scattering  sprays  for  the  sea  birds  around 
To  sweeten  the  life  of  their  lonely  home. 

February  20,  1901. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME 


THE  COLORADO  COLUMBINE 

Tall  and  slender  in  thy  graceful  growth, 
Thou  art  tinted  with  the  shades  of  blue; 

Sacred  as  the  lover's  solemn  oath 
To  his  adored  he  will  be  true. 

The  deepest  hue  of  thy  outward  edge 
Fades  softly  into  a  mellow  gold; 

As  the  lover  makes  a  faithful  pledge 
That  he  will  to  her  his  heart  unfold. 

Delicate  and  fair,  I  see  thee  there, 

Where  the  waters  flow  and  wild  winds  blow; 
On  the  mountains  bare  and  moonlight  stare, 

Meekly  and  low  thou  dost  sweetly  grow. 

No  forest  flower  with  thee  can  vie: 
With  blades  of  blue  and  petals  of  gold; 

And  pendants,  like  comets  in  the  sky, 
Are  grand  and  beautiful  to  behold. 

Oh!  Columbine,  Sweet  Columbine! 

Oft  I  cherish  thee  in  mem'ry  dear 
And  fain  would  cast  my  lot  with  thine 

If  thou  my  pensive  thoughts  could  cheer. 


July  6th,   1908 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

REMOTEST   RECOLLECTIONS 

Remotest  recollections  survive 

Throughout  the  hidden  depths  of  the  past, 
Keeping  our  present  thoughts  alive 

To  the  incidents  that  hold  us  fast. 

For  there  is  a  faint  recollection 
Of  those  long-ago,  juvenile  days, 

When  we  looked  forth  for  protection 
In  our  innocent,  cherubic  ways. 


Facing  a  little  three  acre  field, 
Across  the  lane  stood  a  walnut  tree 

Whose  morning  shade  early  revealed 
The  glory  of  nature,  sweet  to  see. 

Out  o'er  this  field,  in  juvenile  joy, 
I  walked  as  proud  as  proud  could  be, 

Shouting,  "I  will  be  a  farmer  boy, 
For  a  farmer  is  the  life  for  me." 

"I'll  be  a  farmer  boy,"  so  I  sang, 
As  o'er  that  emerald  field  I  tread, 

While  music  of  nature  sweetly  rang 
Around  about  my  exalted  head. 


To  the  south  ran  a  little  clear  brook 

Whose  banks  were  steep  and  shaded  by  trees, 
As  it  wound  its  way  around  the  nook 

And  gently  play'd  with  the  morning  breeze. 


10  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

This  little  stream,  in  a  quiet  course, 

Winding  its  way  between  house  and  barn, 

Furnish'd  many  drinks  for  cow  and  horse, 
As  it  flow'd  on  through  adjoining  farm. 


Early  recollections  I  recall, — 

It  seems  to  me  I  was  barely  five,  — 

When  the  drowsy  cattle,  calves  and  all, 
From  field  to  barn  I  learned  to  drive. 

The  straight,  smooth  road  running  east  and  west, 
Strewn  with  trav'lers  from  morning  'till  night, 

Gave  our  courage  a  crucial  test, 

And  gave  our  hearts  a  tremendous  fright. 

One  autumn  night  when  coming  from  school, 
John  Edsinger,  with  a  bad  false  face, 

Play'd  the  part  of  nefarious  fool, 
And  gave  us  an  awful  scare  and  race. 

Fields  and  fences  we  scanned  like  deers, 
Pursued  by  hounds  through  bush  and  plain; 

While  he  kept  up  his  hideous  cheers 
As  we  rushed  on  with  might  and  main. 

A  deep,  dry  ditch  that  before  us  lay 
Proved  our  refuge,  when  out  of  breath, 

As  by  it  we  made  our  "get-away" 

When  that  false  face  looked  like  sure  death. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  1 1 

In  those  days  few  clothes  were  allowed, 
Money  was  scarce,  and  our  feet  often  bare; — 

Of  a  pink  waist  I  surely  was  proud 
And  wish'd  other  boys  my  joy  could  share. 

From  our  old  home  to  Grandpa  Snyder's, 

A  distance  of  six  miles  or  seven, 
The  trees  were  fraught  with  bugs  and  spiders, — 

But  even  this  we  thought  was  heaven. 

By  the  road,  a  big  butternut  tree, 

With  its  fuzzy  fruit  upon  the  ground, 
Remains  a  cherished  memory, 

Like  some  treasure  that  has  just  been  found. 

Thus  the  "Remotest  Recollections" 

That  we  can  recall  from  day  to  day, 
Remain  as  precious  conceptions 

Of  times  that  have  long  passed  away. 


12  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 


BEAUTIFUL  BONNEVILLE 

(Bonnevilie  is  situated  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Columbia  River,  forty-one 
miles  east  of  Portland.  Is  one  of  the  most  delightful  and  picturesque  places 
of  the  famous  river  scenery.) 

Serenely  sweet  in  nature's  breast, 
My  soul  to  charm,  my  heart  to  thrill, 

Lies  nature's  gem,  in  nature's  rest; 
Sweet  Bonnevilie,  sweet  Bonnevilie. 

Beneath  the  shade  of  stately  pines, 
Beneath  the  green  of  graceful  hills, 

Where  hang  the  sacred  myrtle  vines, 
And  gently  run  the  sparkling  rills. 

Oh!  beautiful  place  of  paradise, 
Where  the  Columbia's  emerald  walls 

Are  kissed  by  the  soft  mists  that  rise 
From  Columbia's  distant  waterfalls. 

Oh!  sweetest  spot  of  all  the  land, 
Where  youth  and  age  would  linger  still, 

Where  winds  Columbia's  silver  strand 
At  Bonnevilie,  sweet  Bonnevilie. 

Song  birds  and  bees  feast  in  the  trees; 

The  ambient  space  with  fragrance  fill 
From  every  bough  and  every  breeze, 

This  grand  and  beautiful  Bonnevilie. 

Portland,  Oregon,  January,   1902. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  13 


IMPARTING  TO  THE  QUEEN  OF  FLOWERS 

(Dedicated  to  the  Artist.) 

Oh!  ravishing  rose  of  ruddy  hue, 
That,  bursting  like  rockets  in  the  sky, 

Perfume  the  air  and  sweeten  the  dew 
Where  heaven  and  earth  in  beauty  vie. 

Far  dearer  to  me  in  language  unspoken 
Are  hidden  the  treasures  thy  petals  enfold, 

And  sweet  the  love  that  has  ne'er  been  broken 
By  rivaling  rose,  myrtle  or  marigold. 

Hymen's  altar,  thou  hast  ever  basked 
And  sooth'd  the  way  of  man's  ardent  desire, 

Where  pain  and  pleasure  are  closely  clasped 
By  the  consoling  of  heaven's  lyre. 

My  wand'ring  thoughts  thou  oft  dost  tranquilize 
And  from  thy  memories  I  fain  would  part, 

But  cherish  the  days  that  immortalize 
Their  diamond  dawn  upon  my  pensive  heart. 


14  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 


DISTURB  NOT  THAT  WHICH  IS  AT  REST. 

Oh!  disturb  not  that  which  is  at  rest: — 

Rivers   that  have   flown   o'er   hill   and   plain, 

Form  lakes  permanent  on  earth's  broad  breast 
And  revert  not  to  their  source  again. 

Disturb  not  the  leaves  of  our  pathway 
As  they  have  drifted  to  good  and  bad; 

Let  them  remain,  even  though,  half  way, 
They  leave  us  dissatisfied  and  sad. 

If  from  absence,  our  friends  become  cold, 
Let  them  remain  in  that  state  of  mind; 

As  time  unrolls,  it  may  have  foretold 

That  our  friendships  are  mostly  that  kind. 

The  same  conditions  ever  prevail, 

If  our  confidence  they  do  not  rob, 
In  protecting  the  past  from  assail 

As1  they  prepare  to  "finish  the  job." 

Time  knits  firm  the  custom  of  living 
And  holds  us  fast  to  daily  routine, 

Without  a  fear  or  much  misgiving 
As  to  the  results  that  intervene. 

Life  is  fraught  with  venture  and  romance 
Without  knowing  its  ultimate  end; — 

Largely  a  risk  and  largely  a  chance 
In  which  we  follow  the  common  trend. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  15 

Quickly  the  present  precludes  the  past 
As  night  comes  on  after  close  of  day; 

Transforming  the  scenes  that  could  not  last 
Into  the  realms  that  before  us  lay. 

After  all  is  said  and  all  is  done, 

We  review  the  past  with  pain,  or  pride, 

And  recall  that  which  was  lost  or  won 
By  all  who  lived  and  all  who  died. 

Then  disturb  not  that  which  is  at  rest, 

For  the  Lord  will  change,  in  his  wise  way, 

That  which  he  decrees  is  for  the  best, 
With  the  perfect  passing  of  each  day. 


May,  1919. 


FRIENDSHIP 

Friendship   is  not   immune   from   the   assaults   of   time; 

It  endures  to  the  crucial  point  of  reason, 
Then  breaks  under  the  impeding  burden  of  crime 

And  surrenders  to  the  hated  act  of  treason. 

When  the  magic  band  that  binds  our  hearts  together 

Is  broken  by  an  unkind  word  or  action, 
It  leaves  the  pang  of  a  painful  wound  forever 

In  the  dismal  depths  of  our  soul's  retraction. 

Friendship  does  not  always  heal  the  wounds  of  error; 

It  only  aids  to  a  certain  human  extent; 
Then  becomes  dismayed  and  retreats  in  terror 

At  the  pending  trouble  it  cannot  circumvent. 


16  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

I  WILL  COME  BACK  TO  THEE 

I  will  come  back  to  thee,  sweet  Caroline, 
If  kindly  the  fates  will  deal  with  me; 

If  thou  wilt  forbear  and  ever  be  mine, 
I  will  come  back  to  thee,  come  back  to  thee. 

The  snow  has  fallen  and  melted  and  dried 
Since  last  we  parted  in  Caledonia  fair, 

The  roses  have  bloomed,  faded  and  died 
Without  our  having  our  coveted  share. 

The  blossoms  that  scented  the  vale  so  sweet 
Have  spent  their  fragrance  on  the  balmy  air, 

And  the  fruit  will  ripen  ere  we  shall  meet 
In  the  perfume  of  meadows  growing  there. 

The  soft  summer  winds  blow  over  the  sand, 
The  billows  roll  over  the  restless  sea 

And  spend  their  force  on  the  silvery  strand 
While  I  am  thinking  and  thinking  of  thee. 

The  feverish  days  and  fretful  nights  that 
Have  filled  my  heart  with  ardent  desire 

For  the  joys  of  "Everest"  and  "Ararat," 
And  left  my  soul  in  the  throes  of  fire. 

How  oft  I  long  to  break  this  endless  chain 
Of  mingled  grief,  embittered  sadness, 

And  relieve  my  mind  and  bewildered  brain 
With  a  welcome  hope  of  future  gladness. 

Then  dispel  thy  doubt  and  dispel  thy  fear; 

The  ship  will  come  back  from  over  the  sea; 
After  years  of  wandering,  far  and  near, 

I  will  come  back  to  thee,  come  back  to  thee. 

Seattle,  Washington,  July  1st,  1903. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  17 


OFT,  IN  THE  SILENT  HOURS 

Oft,  in  the  silent  hours,  I  think  afar 
Into  the  sacred  realms  of  distant  years, 

And  trace  the  beauty  of  a  silent  star 
That  shines  forever  through  sacred  tears. 

Oft,  in  the  silent  hours,  I  wander  o'er 
Some  little  act  or  deed  or  kindness  done 

By  one  whose  noble  face  I  see  no  more, 
And  one  whose  noble  act  some  kindness  won. 

Oft,  in  the  silent  hours,  I  meditate 
Upon  those  varied,  vanished  scenes — 

Upon  the  strange,  mysterious  ways  of  fate 
That  fills  our  lives  with  Utopian  dreams. 

A  flower  that  blooms  but  a  day  and  dies 

Bestows  upon  its  brief  admirers 
That  cherished  mem'ry  that  underlies 

The  fondest  hope  of  its  chief  desirers. 

When  leaves  have  fallen  and  branches  are  bare, 
There  lingers  a  fondness  about  the  tree, 

As  we  look  on  the  shore  in  vacant  stare 
As  the  waters  recede  to  restless  sea. 

Oft,  in  the  silent  hours,  I  think  again 
Of  one  whose  journey  was  early  ended 

And  wonder  why,  again,  it  should  have  been 
That  her  youthful  life  was1  so  transcended. 


18  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 


Oft,  in  the  silent  hours,  I  think  of  thee 
As  some  poor,  frail  and  trampled  flower: — 

Sacrificed  a  life  that  had  to  be 

For  some  unknown  and  higher  power. 

Oft,  in  the  silent  hours,  I  realize 

That  when  the  blow  strikes  two  hearts  with  grief, 
It  is  a  sorrow  that  never  dies, 

And  better  the  one  who  has  quick  relief. 

Los  Angeles,  California,  June,   1906. 


LINES  ACCOMPANYING  THE  PRESENTATION  OF  A 
FLORAL  VASE 

Bright  flowers  that  recall  to  my  childhood 
Fond  memories,  as  the  sweet  seasons  roll, 

Of  rambles  through  the  gardens  and  wildwood 
In  enchantments  that  ravish  my  soul. 

From  years  that  have  flown  and  hopes  that  are  dead 
I'll  sweeten  the  present  with  perfumes  of  the  past 

By  placing  an  amaranth  upon  thy  head, 

From  the  shadows  of  bliss  that  could  not  last! 

Then  a  bond  of  love  I'll  sincerely  tender 

To  entwine  about  thy  beautiful  brow, 
And  a  wreath  of  golden  leaves  I'll  render 

To  partly  repair  the  broken  bough. 

Kansas  City,  1896. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  19 


THE  LAVA  BEDS 

Black  and  barren,  cracked  and  crumbling; 

Browned  by  the  heat  and  gray  from  time; 
Crevices,  with  water  lowly  rumbling — 

Ages  are  turning  thy  walls  to  lime. 

Belched  from  the  earth  by  awful  force, 
Writhed  and  rolled  upon  the  ground 

Like  a  swollen  stream  that  bursts  its  course 
And  leaves  destruction  for  miles  around. 

Emitted  from  "Infernal  Regions," 

Spending  thy  vengeance  on  nature's  breast, 
Leaving  the  proof  of  frightful  legions 

Imprinted  upon  thy  glossy  crest. 

Centuries,  centuries,  since  have  ruled; 

Races  of  people  have  lived  and  died; 
Stars  have  appear'd  since  thou  hast  cooled, 

To  adorn  the  heavens  that  o'er  thee  ride. 

Desolate  as  an  ancient  tomb 
Of  some  wretched  Arabian  thief, 

Whose  dismal  life  was  born  of  gloom, 
And  lived  and  died  in  constant  grief. 

Reptiles  abound  in  thy  seclusion 

Where  silence  prevails  both  night  and  day, 
And  life  is  a  lurid  delusion, 

To  those  who  have  wandered  that  way. 


20  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

Mountains  have  their  majestic  glory, 
Hills  and  valleys  their  richness  of  gold, 

But  with  thee  it  is  one  sad  story, 

The  half  of  which  has  never  been  told. 

Seeds  have  drifted  from  far  off  places, 
Shrubs  are  clinging  to  the  rugged  stones, 

Striving,  struggling  like  alien  races 
Who  have  shifted  from  their  native  homes. 

Timid  flowers  will  bloom  for  a  day 

Over  the  smooth,  shining  "nigger  heads;" 

But  quickly  die  and  vanish  away 

From  these  dark,  desolate  Lava  Beds. 

Western  New  Mexicon,  October  12th,   1911. 


— Like  a  hidden  germ  in  the  heart  of  a  seed,  a  good 
thought  is  conducive  to  a  good  deed. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  21 


LINES  ACCOMPANYING  THE  GIFT 
OF  A  CAMEO  RING 

(H.  C.  P.) 

Go,  thou  little  serpentine  ring, 

Cling  fast  to  my  old  friend's  finger; 

Joy  to  him  may  you  always  bring 
And  loving  thoughts  of  me  linger. 

Cement  the  links  of  friendship's  chain 
With  the  golden  seal  that  ne'er  can  part;- 

As  to  the  flowers,  so  is  the  rain 

That  binds  thy  mem'ry  to  my  heart. 

Then  as  this  sacred,  silken  band 
Crowns  the  head  of  a  noble  man, 

May  its  beauty  adorn  your  hand 
As  only  such  adornments  can. 

Symbol  of  wisdom,  guide  thy  way 
In  endless  song  unto  this  ring, 

While  thoughts  of  me  around  thee  play, 
And  guarding  angels  'round  thee  sing. 

November  30,  1918. 


22  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 


DARING  ARROW 

(Fearlessness  and  Fidelity  ) 

Indigenous  to  high  altitudes,  Pacific  Coast  of  North  America.     Flower*  pale 
blue,  season  late  autumn. 

Truly  dost  thou  wait  'till  summer  dies 
To  catch  the  spray  of  autumn's  dew — 

To  kiss  the  star  of  midnight  skies 
And  crown  the  summit  of  Siskiyou! 

Oh  beautiful  flower  I  love  so  well, 

Intrepid  and  true,  when  the  crimson  rays 

Fall  o'er  the  heights  on  which  you  dwell, 
And  leave  a  legend  of  dying  days. 

Love  inspires  my  enraptured  breast 
And  dreams  of  happy,  passing  hours, 

While  I  repose  in  infinite  rest 

Upon  thy  balmy,  beautiful  bowers! 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  23 


SUNSET  ON  THE  DESERT 

Beneath  the  blue  sky,  beyond  the  bare  hills 
The  colors  denote  approaching  night: 

Like  hopes  of  the  heart  that  the  day  fulfills, 
Completing  a  scene  of  sublime  delight. 

Darkening  shades  stretch  from  peak  to  peak, 
Blending  with  the  gray  sands,  drifted  high, 

Where  scorching  winds  from  the  valleys  leap 
And  spend  their  force  against  the  clear  sky. 

A  hazy  hue  hangs  o'er  the  canyons  deep, 
A  silence  pervades  the  fading  light 

That  proclaims  the  day  has  gone  to  sleep 
In  the  rapturous  grandeur  of  night. 

Immutable  hills  that  stand  forever 

Like  silhouettes  against  the  sky, 
Can  ne'er  be  traced  so  clear  und  clever 

As  when  the  lengthy  day  begins  to  die. 

Vast  is  the  space,  profound  is  the  sight — 

Sublime  the  transition  to  behold, 
When  the  last  of  day  surrenders  to  night 

And  crowns  its  end  in  a  setting  of  gold. 

Lower  and  lower  the  sun  is  sinking, 

Deeper  and  deeper  the  shades  are  falling; — 

Of  dear  ones  I  am  thinking  and  thinking 
As  their  spirits  to  me  are  calling. 


24  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

The  torrid  sun  has  left  the  arid  land, — 
A  cool  breeze  revives  the  waving  trees, 

And  brings  relief  to  the  seething  sand 
As  sweet  as  honey  from  the  honey  bees. 

Supreme   spell,   where   day  stops   and  night   starts; 

With  the  last  of  light  comes  the  first  star; 
The  goddess  of  night  studies  her  charts 

As  the  ship  passes  over  the  bar. 

Adieu  to  the  desert,  adieu  to  day, 
Onward,  westward,  o'er  the  blue  Pacific, 

Tinting  the  skies  in  crimson  array 
And  painting  the  waves  ultra-prolific. 

Bagdad,  California,  June  6th,  1912. 


As  one  drop  of  aniline  discolors  and  destroys  the  clear 
ness  and  beauty  of  water,  so  does  one  false  word  destroy 
the  beauty  and  truth  of  an  entire  sentence. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  25 


MY  TWENTY-FIRST  BIRTHDAY 

Of  my  most  memorable  birthdays 

From  younger  years  to  the  present  time, 

There  is  but  two  that  with  me  stays 
As  up  the  ladder  of  thought  I  climb. 

Youth  looks  forward  to  maturer  age, 
As  in  our  fancy  we  have  roamed 

Over  the  scenes  that  beset  the  stage 
With  colors  bright  and  golden  domed. 

Picturing  many  things  I  would  do 
At  the  happy  age  of  twenty-one: — 

Climbing  the  gigantic  Siskiyou' 
In  my  mind  was  already  begun. 

Well,  oh  how  well,  do  I  remember 

The  visions  that  before  me  lay 
On  thaf  memorable  September 

In   which   came   my   twenty-first   birthday. 

The  golden  grain  still  stood  in  the  field 
As  I  looked  over  the  rolling  farm, 

Striving  with  all  my  might  not  to  yield 
To  that  which  gave  my  parents  alarm. 

But  the  spirit  of  romance  had  come 
Like  a  pall  over  my  restless  state, 

And  nothing  that  could  be  said  or  done 
Stayed  the  destiny  of  my  fate. 


26  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

Oh!  that  discouraged  look  of  alarm 
That  seemed  to  crush  my  father's  heart. 

When  I  decided  to  leave  the  farm, 
And  within  a  few  days  would  depart. 

The  birthday  meal  my  mother  prepared 
With  all  her  goodness  and  perfection, 

Was  never  again  together  shared 

Throughout  the  years  of  intersection. 

Oh,  can  it  be  I'll  see  them  no  more, 
As  sad  recollections  make  me  weep, — 

Will  they  guide  me  from  the  "other  shore" 
Until  by  their  side  I,  too,  shall  sleep? 

Another  birthday  in  after  years 
I  shall  never,  no  never,  forget: 

While  lying  in  pain  and  constant  fears, 
I  beheld  the  waving  violet. 

At  last  the  flowers  faded  away 

And  the  Autumn  leaves  began  to  fall, 

That  on  the  hillside  before  me  lay 
Where  I  so  long  had  watched  them  all. 

Ever  faithful  nurse,  mosr  noble  girl, 
Who  cared  for  me  both  night  and  day; 

Was  to  my  heart  a  precious  pearl 
That  left  its  impress  on  me  to  stay. 

Oh!  how  touching  the  events  of  life 
As  we  recall  those  events  again: — 

It  is  like  the  cutting  of  a  knife 
That  leaves  its  sting  and  alas!  its  stain. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  27 

But  from  the  sweets  of  scented  clover 
I  feel  that  I'm  becoming  immune: — 

I  feel  the  joys  of  life  are  over 
With  the  passing  of  another  June. 


MY  DIAMOND  RUBY  RING 

Like   two   white   stars   in   heaven's   crown, 
Refracting  light  in  distant  space; 

Thy  sparkling  rays  without  a  frown 
Emits  thy  beauty  and  thy  grace. 

From  far-away  Kimberley  fields 
To  California's  golden  strands, 

Old  earth  her  precious  treasure  yields — 
The  treasure  of  her  precious  sands. 

From  Burmah's  damp  malignant  skies 
To  the  heights  of  the  Pyrenees, 

The  ruby  in  its  richness  lies 

Like  carmine  blossoms  in  the  trees. 

Red  as  the  noble  warrior's  blood, 
When  battlefields  are  drear  and  dark; 

Ancient  as  the  ancient  flood, — 
But  bright  as  an  electric  spark. 


28  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 


TRANQUILITY  OF  THE  TREES 

(From  actual  scenes  in  four  states.) 

The  graceful  elm,  in  lavish  luster, 

Stands  serenely,  through  sunshine  and  rain 
Like  an  inverted  feather  duster 

On  the  beautiful  landscapes  of  Maine. 

Soft  summer  breeze  stirs  the  waving  leaves, 
Mild  shades  fall  upon  the  growing  grass, 

Consoling  those  whose  weary  heart  grieves, 
Under  burdens,  as  they  onward  pass. 

In  the  great  forests  of  Ohio 

Where  first  I  saw  those  tow'ring  giants — 
The  oak,  the  ash,  the  lin; — fornVd  the  trio 

That  held  their  heads  in  bold  defiance. 

Many  have  come,  and  many  have  gone; 

Forests  have  fallen,  meadows  been  made; 
Millions  grown  up,  then  passed  on, 

Since  first  they  cast  their  lingering  shade. 

Tranquil  trees  of  the  Kansas  Valley 
Clothed  in  foliage  of  Autumn's  spell, 

While  birds  of  plumage  round  them  rally, 
Then  fly  away  in  final  farewell. 

The  crimson  colois  will  fade  away, 

But  the  stately  trees  will  stand  like  mutes 

When  wintry  winds  through  their  branches  play, 
And  resemble  tones  of  dismal  flutes. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  29 

Tall,  motionless  palms  of  California, 
Straight  and  silent  as  towers  of  stone, 

Their  beauty  and  power  adorn  you, 

As  year  by  year  they  have  stronger  grown. 

Dear,  drooping  pepper  trees,  one  by  one 

Are  scattered  o'er  the  fertile  fields 
To  subdue  the  rays  of  the  midday  sun 

And  charm  the  beauty  that  landscape  yields. 

Oh!  beautiful  land  of  sunlit  hue, 

Such  hills  and  valleys  are  seldom  seen — 

Emerald  and  gold  and  skies  of  blue — 
Beset  the  "Tranquility  of  the  Trees." 

Los  Angeles,  California,  November  25,  1914. 


The  most  is  accomplished  by  saying  little. 


30  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

WHEN  THE  GRASS  GROWS  GREEN 

(To  my  dear  old  mother,  who  knows  the  circumstances  and  the  vicissitudes 
of  my  life,  these  sentimental  lines  are  inscribed.) 

Deftly  the  placid  seasons  come  and  go; 

Their  sadness  and  gladness  I  oft  have  seen ; 
Their  memories  quicken,  enthrall  me  so 

When  the  lilies  open  and  the  grass  grows  green. 

The  vivid  recalling  of  youth's  young  dream, 
Where  pleasure  and  pain  again  and  again 

Were  mingled  along  life's  turbulent  stream; 
And  naught  but  memory  can  now  remain. 

And  oh!  how  fondly  my  spirit  doth  dwell 
On  the  vigorous  hopes  of  life  unseen, 

As  the  soul  is  charm'd  by  a  magic  spell, 

When  the  lilacs  bloom  and  the  grass  grows  green. 

There  comes  with  the  seed  time  and  the  sowing 
On  that  beautiful  borderland  of  May, 

A  thought  of  the  sweet  days  that  were  glowing 
With  the  approach  of  a  bright  wedding  day. 

The  opulent  blessings  of  fortune,  fair, 
As  the  golden  harvest  of  waving  grain 

Enchants  the  traveler  who  lingers  there 
To  view  the  glories  of  a  fertile  plain. 

But  alas!  the  pleasures  of  lost  treasures 
Have  vanished,  and  left  their  impress  keen 

Upon  my  pensive  soul — in  sad  measures, — 
When  the  myrtles  vine  and  the  grass  grows  green. 

Kansas  City,  April,  1902. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  31 


HOME  WITHOUT  A  HOSTESS 

On  the  threshold  I  pause  and  listen 

For  a  loving  voice  I  knew  so  well; 
Where  the  bright  sunbeams  used  to  glisten 

And  the  fleecy  snowflakes  softly  fell. 

Vivid  pictures  that  adorn  the  walls 

Show  the  tracing  of  her  magic  hand, 
As  the  morning  light  serenely  falls 

Like  streaks  of  gold  across  the  strand. 

But  not  a  word  breaks  the  silent  spell, 
And  deep  tranquility  reigns  profound, 

Where  once  the  familiar  voice  of  Belle 
Pervaded  the  ambient  space  around. 

When  ^Eolian  strains  have  died  away 

On  the  ripples  of  a  limpid  stream 
There  lingers  that  sound  we  fain  would  stay, 

And  calls  us  back  to  memory's  dream. 

The  dewdrops  feed  the  brilliant  flowers 
While  the  butterflies  are  sweetly  sleeping; 

Where  the  night  contains  the  redolent  hours 
And  the  myrtle  vines  are  softly  creeping. 

Then  the  waving,  restless  aspen  trees, 
Like  the  heart  in  sadness  ever  grieves; 

When  the  nights  are  fraught  with  mournful  breeze 
And  the  days  with  faded  autumn  leaves. 


32  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 


IN  THE  BAY  OF  BENGAL 

Away,  away  o'er  the  dark  deep  sea 
The  murmuring  waves  are  rolling  on, 

And  I  am  thinking,  thinking  of  thee 
As  the  lonely  day  is  nearly  gone. 

Crimson  clouds  hang  in  the  western  skies, 
The  after-glow  of  golden  sunset, 

Where  soon  the  silvery  moon  will  rise 
And  reflect  its  rays  of  violet. 

Over  the  waters  night  is  falling, 
The  day  is  dim  and  dimmer  growing, 

The  stars  upon  the  moon  are  calling 
With  silv'ry  tints  and  lighter  glowing. 

Onward,  northward  the  ship  is  racing 
From  Malacca  Straits  and  Singapore; 

Verdant  plains  I  long  to  be  tracing 
On  India's  distant,  southern  shore. 

Beautiful  the  stars  appear  above, 
Brilliant  their  light  like  crystals  fall 

Upon  the  glorious  night  of  love 
That  pervades  the  great  Bay  of  Bengal. 

Calcutta,  October  5th,  1913. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  33 

SATISFACTION   AND   SOLILOQUY 

(Lines  suggested  by  reading  "Science  and  Health  with  Key  to  the  Scriptures.") 

Oh!  think  not  of  this  world's  pleasures, 
Worry  not  after  its  treasures; 
Health  is  more  precious  than  graces 
Or  fame  that  is  carved  in  high  places. 

Possession  proves  ofttimes  a  prison 
Where  delusive  desires  have  risen; — 
Fastens  upon;  us  trouble  and  care 
The  meek  and  lowly  have  not  to  bear. 

If  only  our  mind  is  contented, 
Disease  will  often  be  prevented; 
And  happiness  will  be  completed 
By  the  small  sins  we  have  defeated. 

Each  day  let  us  bestow  on  others 
The  love  and  affection  of  brothers, 
With  gratitude  for  help  accorded 
Those  who  are  divinely  rewarded. 

Oh!  beautiful  thought,  oh  wondrous  deed, 

When    from    sickness    and    sorrow    we're    freed: — 

Through  infinite  love  from  Him  on  high, 

It  is  sweet  to  live  and  sweet  to  die. 

Minds  that  remain  in  the  immortal 
As  they  enter  heaven's  sweet  portal; 
Where  good  is  crown'd  with  the  angel's  call 
And  God  forever  is  "All  in  all." 

Chicago,  Illinois,  November   10th,   1915. 


34  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 


HERE  AND  THERE 

Bright  stars  shine  through   the   pale   blue   sky, 
The  moon  lies  low  beyond  the  hills; — 

How  sweet  to  know  that  you  and  I 
Behold  the  joy  that  night  fulfills. 

Though  I  am  here  and  you  are  there, 
We  are  as  one  in  common  thought; 

For  God  is  with  us  ev'rywhere, 

If  with  his  goodness  we  are  fraught. 

Then  away  on  that  southern  shore, 

Where  fragrant  flow'rs  perfume  the  air; 

I'll  think  of  you  forevermore, 
While  I  am  here  and  you  are  there. 


November,   1917. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  35 


CALIFORNIA 

California,  oh!  California; 

Sweet  land  of  romance  and  resources; — 
How  thy  beautiful  srteams  adorn  you 

As  they  pursue  their  winding  courses. 

Emerald  hills  and  velvet  valleys 
Enhance  the  view  that  serenely  lies 

Beyond  the  vale  that  sweetly  tallies 
With  thy  charm  of  eternal  paradise! 

Gorgeous  flowers  of  rapturous  hue 
Fascinate  the  soul  with  fond  delight. 

As  the  sky,  in  perpetual  blue, 

Enchants  the  vista  both  day  and  night. 

Long,  smooth  roads,  that  lead  to  the  ocean, 
Are  shaded  by  trees  that  line  the  way, 

And  fill  the  heart  with  fresh  emotion 
Of  exquisite  joy  both  night  and  day. 

A  mellow  light  from  the  evening  skies 

Blends    with    the   hue    of    the    golden    West. 

Where  day  so  beautifully  dies, 

And  leaves  its  mem'ry  upon  my  breast. 


March  31,   1918. 


36  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

FAREWELL 

"Farewell!"    That  painful,   pensive  word  she  cried 
Regardless  of  the  grief  it  would  impart — 

As  if  her  soul  it  only  gratified 
To  trample  upon  my  broken  heart. 

Oh!  must  we  be  compelled  to  believe 
The  sweetest  things  are  an  idle  dream — 

That  the  human  heart  is  prone  to  deceive, 
And  earthly  joys  are  not  what  they  seem? 

If  the  lapse  of  time  will  kindly  explain 

The  motive  of  my  beautiful  Belle, 
I  will  forever  silent  remain 

In  obeyance  to  her  cruel  "Farewell." 

But  the  fragrance  of  sweetest  flowers 

We  so  long  loved  and  cherished 
May  remain,  and  remain  yet  as  ours, 

After  the  flowers  have  perished. 

And  the  melodies  that  charmed  us 

In  the  grasp  of  that  sweet,  magic  spell, 

Ere  the  evil  that  alarmed  us 
In  the  repine  of  a  sad  farewell. 

Perchance  that  act  of  an  unknown  cause 

May  crown  itself  with  a  bitter  prize, 
As  those  who  leap  before  they  pause 

Reward  their  act  with  bitter  sighs. 

After  the  clouds,  we  fully  realize 

The  dual  value  of  the  clearness — 
The  infinite  beauty  of  the  skies 

And  their  everlasting  dearness. 

El  Paso,  Texas,  July  2,  1904. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  37 


WINTER  WINDS 

Oh !  hear  the  winter  wind's  wild  weird  sound, — 
From  where  does  it  come,  whence  does  it  go;- 

Waving  the  trees  and  sweeping  the  ground 
With  the  breath  of  ice  and  breath  of  snow. 

An  echo  of  thy  voice,  sad  and  sharp, 
Reverts  through  the  solitude  of  night 

Like  strains  of  an  aeolian  harp 
Tun'd  to  the  joy  of  solemn  delight. 

O'er  fields  and  forests  thou  art  calling 

The  knell  of  another  dying  year, 
While  the  withered  leaves  are  falling 

With  the  shedding  of  another  tear. 

Oh!  winter  winds,  whose  trace  heaven  keeps, 
Sad  are  thy  sounds  that  around  me  cling, 

For  thou  dost  pass  where  my  lost  one  sleeps 
In  the  hours  of  winter  and  hours  of  spring. 


1917. 


38  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 


LET  ME  COME  HOME  IN  MAY,  MOTHER 

Oh,  let  me  come  home  in  May,  mother; 

Let  me  come  back  to  the  farm  once  more, 
Where  you  and  I  and  sister  and  brother 

Used  to  dwell  in  the  days  of  yore. 

Let  me  walk  over  the  dear  old  hills 

As  I  have  often  done,  you  know — 
For  a  longing  in  my  soul  it  fills 

Of  some  five  and  twenty  years  ago. 

Let  me  come  back  where  the  soft  winds  blow, 
Let  me  come  in  the  sweet  month  of  May: 

For  it  is  there  my  heart  yearns  to  go, 
And  it  is  there  my  heart  yearns  to  stay. 

Let  me  recall  those  dear,  tranquil  hours 
As  I  stroll  o'er  the  fields  in  old-time  way — 

As  the  bee  devours  the  sweets  of  flowers, 
In  the  beautiful  month  of  May. 

Let  me  come  home  while  the  vales  are  gay, 

While  the  trees  are  green  and  blossoms  bright- 
While  the  pretty  bluebirds  sing  by  day 
And  the  shy  whippoorwill  sings  at  night. 

Let  me  come  home  when  the  air  is  mellow 
With  fragrance  of  flowers  both  night  and  day: 

When  the  rose  is  red  and  tulips  yellow, 
In  the  ever  beautiful  month  of  May. 

San  Diego,  California,   1904. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  39 


THE  LONE  PINE 

Between  the  walls  of  Clear  Creek  Canyon 
There    stands    a    lone    pine    of    slender    form; — 

Quite  unlike  India's  spreading  banyan, 

It  affords  no  shelter  when  swept  by  storm. 

Stupendous  walls  of  solid  gray  stone 

Surround  this  tree  on  every  side, 
While  in  the  crevices  moss  has  grown, 

And  by  its  roots  sparkling  waters  glide. 

Blue  skies  above,  lucid  stream  below 
Enhance  the  view  of  this  lonely  pine, 

As  ever  onward  the  waters  flow 

Toward  the  goal  of  their  distant  shrine. 

Alone  it  stands  in  this  serene  stage 

Where  the  lofty  heights  of  granite  walls 

Overlook  the  winding  narrow  gauge 
That  traverses  the  blue  water  falls. 

Straight  as  a  line,  pointing  to  the  skies, 

This  pretty  pine  stands  unmolested 
Save  by  a  bird  that  above  it  flies, 

Whose  aerial  flights  are  uncontested. 

In  a  distinctive  world  of  its  own, 

This  lone  pine  of  perpetual  green 
Has  no  rival  in  Colorado  known, 

Unless  it  is  one  that  has  not  been  seen. 


40  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

Secure  against  the  changes  of  time, 

As  if  a  jewel  in  matrix  cast; 
With  heights  and  depths  and  space  sublime 

To  protect  its  future  as  its  past. 

Heaven  smiles  upon  this  lonely  tree 
In  its  majestic  walls  of  granite, 

And  elements  of  tranquility 

Bespeak  the  beatitude  that  span  it. 

December,  1918. 


A  LITTLE  BUNCH  OF  BUFFALO  GRASS 

The  warm  winds  bend  thy  long  and  slender  stems, 
And  wave  thy  haughty  heads  to  Autumn's  spell; 

The  arid  plains  thou  wreathed  in  diadems, 
Then  wither'd  with  the  Summer's  sad  farewell. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  41 


THE  MORNING  OF  LIFE 

Time  is  mainly  of  pleasure  and  strife, 

Given  to  us  as  a  useful  guide 
While  filling  that  function  known  as  life, 

Ere  passing  on  to  the  other  side. 

How  beautiful  the  morning  of  youth 
When  the  heart  is  young  and  full  of  joy; 

Filled  with  love  and  filled  with  truth 
That  crowns  the  song  of  a  happy  boy! 

Then  comes  he  over  fields  and  flowers, 
With  hope, — as  the  sapling  to  the  tree; — 

Portraying  to  us  the  sweetest  hours 
Of  what  he  is  and  expects  to  be. 

As  a  mariner  sails  out  to  sea 

In  eager  quest  of  some  far-off  goal; 

So  does  the  boy,  in  anxious  glee, 
Build  prospective  castles  in  his  soul. 

His  agile  step,  his  brilliant  mind, 

Bespeaks  that  age  we  so  much  admire, 

While  seeking  the  object  he  longs  to  find 
And  gratifies  his  ardent  desire. 

Oh,  how  sweet  is  the  morning  of  life, 
Bright  and  balmy,  the  golden  sunrise, 

Like  the  mingled  strain  of  harp  and  fife, 
Whose  melodious  voice  never  dies. 


42  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

Could  we  but  prolong  this  blissful  part 
Through  eternal  romance  and  pleasure; 

How  replete  would   be   the   joys   of   our  heart 
In  bearing  life's  most  joyful  treasure. 

But  morning  blossoms  must  fade  away 
As  dewdrops  vanish  under  the  sun; — 

Juvenile  joys  have  served  their  day 
And  another  life  has  just  begun. 

January,  1919. 


RETROSPECT 

(R.  G.  L.) 

Green  were  the  fields  of  early  springtime, 
Sweet  is  the  thought  of  that  happy  hour, 

When,  in  the  realms  of  a  far-off  clime 
I  first  saw  thee,  oh  beautiful  flower! 

Beaming  with  pleasant  and  peaceful  face, 
Marked  by  the  charm  of  silv'ry  hair, 

Strong  with  the  poise  of  womanly  grace, — 
An  enchantment  rare  was  hidden  there. 

Time  has  pass'd  and  I  am  growing  old, 

But  flowers  bloom  and  the  grass  still  grows, 

As  years  have  ripened  into  gold 
The  beauty  of  my  first  loved  Rose. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  43 


THE  NOONDAY  OF  LIFE 

As  harvest  follows  the  seed  sowing 
And  summer  the  last  days  of  spring, 

So  is  the  noonday  of  life  glowing 
With  the  fullness  of  everything. 

"Wild  oats"  that  perhaps  have  been  sown 

In  the  early  stage  of  our  travels, 
Have  been  discarded  and  long  since  flown 

As  the  wisdom  of  age  unravels. 

The  sun,  in  the  zenith  of  our  skies, 
Records  the  rapid  passing  of  years; 

Leaving  us  in  the  depths  of  surprise 
And  ofttimes  in  the  shedding  of  tears. 

In  planning  the  daily  course  of  life 

And  bearing  its  various  ordeals, 
Man  begins  to  survey  for  a  wife 

To  share  his  joys  and  prepare  his  meals. 

Beautifully  the  landscape  of  life 

Expands  before  the  young  bride  and  groom, 
When  to  himself  he  has  taken  a  wife 

And  she  has  taken  her  future  doom. 

It  is  now  that  great  questions  rise 
In  enforcing  the  dreamed  of  things; 

It  is  now  that  man  and  woman  tries 
The  objects  their  united  strength  brings. 


44  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

Birds  build  in  forests  of  oak  and  pine, 
No  matter  how  the  elements  annoy; 

They    will,    with    their    little    offspring,    shine, 
No  matter  what  the  enemies  destroy. 

They  quietly  incubate  their  brood 

Through  days  and  nights  of  unutter'd  words, 
Then  begin  to  provide  needed  food 

For  their  little  helpless,  hungry  birds. 

When  they  soar  out  in  the  open  land 

Exciting  our  pride  in  passing  by; 
Their  means  of  life  begin  to  expand 

As  over  the  fields  they  swiftly  fly. 

The  golden  grain  is  ready  to  reap, 
The  noonday  sun  is  shining  above; — 

There  is  no  reason  why  man  should  weep 
While  heaven  bestows  such  endless  love. 

How  touchingly  is  life's  landscape  strewn 
With  incidents  that  bring  us  to  tears; — 

Like  beds  of  roses  in  the  month  of  June, 
Their  mem'ry  returns  in  after  years. 

February,  1919. 


POEAfS  OF  PASTIME  45 


THE  EVENING  OF  LIFE 

Slowly,  softly  evening  shadows  fall 
Upon  the  declining  age  of  men, 

When  they  have  reached  the  timely  call 
Of  allotted  three  score  years  and  ten. 

One  by  one  their  customs  disappear, 
And  are  lost  from  the  daily  routine 

Of  younger  friends  that  were  very  dear, 
But  are  now  with  them  no  longer  seen. 

Day  after  day  the  same  work  was  done, 
Year  after  year  the  seasons  roll'd  on; — 

Varied  has  been  the  race  they  run, 
And  many  before  has  long  since  gone. 

Juvenile  pleasure  for  them  has  passed; 

The  romance  of  youth  that  youth  endears, 
Like  autumn  flowers  that  could  not  last, 

Have  faded  away  with  passing  years. 

The  elastic  step  and  erect  form 
Is  yielding  to  the  demands  of  time, 

As  a  mighty  tree  stricken  by  storm, 
Can  never  again  regain  its  prime. 

The  ripples  of  life  are  dying  down, 
And  a  quiet  pace  taking  their  place; — 

Succeeding  actors  upon  us  frown, 
And  replace  the  speed  of  our  lost  race. 


46  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

Evening  shadows  around  us  thicken 
As  our  twilight  deepens  into  night; — 

With  pain  and  trouble  we  are  stricken 
Ere  entering  upon  our  final  flight. 

But  darkest  clouds  precede  the  clearing, 
And  beyond  the  mist  we  look  for  light, 

As  the  open  doors  we  are  nearing 
With  heavenly  portals  shining  bright. 

Without  hope  of  that  hidden  treasure 
Our  declining  days  are  dark  indeed 

When  deprived  of  that  true  pleasure 
We  hope  to  reap  in  sowing  the  seed. 

When  winds  subside,  there  follows  a  calm 
That  stays   the  tempest  in   tranquil   peace; 

Bathing  the  soul  with  a  soothing  balm 
Of  rest  and  quiet  that  never  cease. 

Frail  flowers  that  grow,  blossom  and  die, 
Will  bloom  again  with  coming  of  spring; 

But  man  when  gone  is  gone  for  aye, 
And  naught  but  mem'ry  of  him  will  bring. 

The  evening  of  life,  with  sadness  fraught, 
Clings  to  the  hope  of  a  brighter  day; 

While  the  lessons  we  were  early  taught 
Proclaim  "peace  that  fadeth  not  away." 

Our  glorious  sun  is  sinking  low, 
Its  brilliance  shines  not  as  before, 

But  its  abeyance  will  onward  flow 
And  light  our  way  from  the  other  shore. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  47 

Oh  then,  dear  Lord,  as  we  close  our  prayer 
And  bid  farewell  to  this  fleeting  show, 

May  we  unite  with  those  over  there, 
As  by  thee  we  come,  so  may  we  go. 


February,   1919. 


FEBRUARY  FOURTEENTH 

Wilt  thou,  oh!  my  beautifull  Belle, 

Kindly  hear  my  humble  pleading, 
While  the  story  of  love  I  tell 

Of  a  heart  for  you  that's  bleeding. 

The  lilies  have  their  opening  spell, 

The  roses  have  their  days  of  duty, 
But  the  love  of  man  will  always  dwell 

Upon  a  woman's  sacred  beauty. 

If  thus  my  story  may  be  told 

In    realms  of    the    "Nymph    of    the    Rhine," 
And  I  to  you  my  love  unfold; 

Accept  this  as  your  Valentine. 


48  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 


INSPIRATION 

Lines  suggested  by  looking  at  a  magnificent  piece  of  statuary,  known  as 
Inspiration,  in  the  window  of  an  Italian  art  store  at  220  South  Broadway,  Los 
Angeles,  California. 

Fair  child  of  Love,  from  heaven  lent, 

A  face  so  pure,  a  soul  so  sweet, 
A  life  so  chaste  and  innocent 

That  angels  love  and  long  to  meet. 

There  is  a  charm  about  thy  grace 

That  holds  us  in  that  magic  spell, 
The  soul  is  held  in  Deistic  place 

By  an  inner  force  we  cannot  tell. 

Beautiful  as  the  goddess  of  Love, 

Bright  as  the  stars  of  midnight  sky, 
Serene  as  the  angels  from  above, 

When  sorrows  have  passed  them  by. 

Peacefully  sweet  is  thy  gaze  on  high, 

Sublime  is  the  soul  that  rests  within ; 
Men  are  charmed  by  the  look  of  thine  eye 

And  women  are  banished  from  sin. 

A  garland  of  leaves  like  harvest  sheaves 

Adorns  thy  head  in  grand  array; 
Enchanting  the  siege  memory  leaves 

Of    sacred    wreaths    that    around    thee    play. 

Radiant  with  light  that  God  imparts 

To  the  spiritual  being  alone; 
Buoyant  with  hope  that  fills  the  hearts 

Of  those  who  ascend  to  His  throne. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  49 

Realms  of  beauty,  spirit  and  prayer 
Are  conveyed  in  those  eyes  divine — 

Only  sacred  thoughts  are  welcome  there 
And  only  sainted  thoughts  are  thine. 

No  fairer»  face  was  ever  cast 

By  sculptor's  utmost  instigation — 
In  the  present  or  in  the  past — 

Than  this  beautiful  Inspiration. 

Los  Angeles,  California,  December   1st,   1912. 


DESTITUTION  OF  THE  DESERT 

Where  weary  trav'ler  treads  from  stone  to  stone 
And  the  hungry  coyote  from  bone  to  bone; 
There  lies  beyond  this  grayish,  ashen  hue 
Barren  peaks  ne'er  bathed  by  rain  or  dew. 

Silhouetted  against  the  pale  blue  sky, 

With  floating,  filmy  clouds  that  seem  to  vie 

With  all  the  grandeur  of  these  rugged  peaks 

Where    drifting    sand    across    their    bosom    sweeps. 

Lifeless  and  lonely,  but  sublime  and  grand 
Century  after  century  they  stand; 
Crowning  the  desert  in  realms  of  glory 
And  inspiration  that  tells  the  story. 

Immutable,  serene — world  of  its  own, 
Inanimate,  desolate,  life  unknown; 
Yet  profound  in  the  spirit  of  splendor 
That  only  such  scenes  nature  can  render. 

Bagdad,   California,   February   20,    1918. 


50  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 


THE  COMING  OF  SPRING 

The  chilling  winds  have  ceased  to  blow 
And  welcome  are  the  flowers  of  spring; 

As  from  beneath  the  lingering  snow, 

Pensive  thoughts  of  other  days  they  bring. 

Unto  this  hour  my  heart  sorely  grieves 
For  one  who  shall  console  me  no  more; 

Alas,  she  went  with  the  coming  leaves, 
That  sad  day  in  eighteen  ninety-four. 

Flowers  of  the  field  are  bright'ning  up 
And  begin  to  clothe  the  rippling  rill 

With  the  cowslip,  yellow  buttercup, 
Violet  and  early  daffodil. 

Filling  the  law  of  "come  and  go," 
These  little  flowers,  vivid  and  sweet, 

That,  growing  beneath  the  winter's  snow, 
The  earliest  days  of  spring  they  greet. 

Proclaiming  the  law  of  life  and  death, — 
Close  of  winter  and  coming  of  spring — 

Air  is  laden  with  the  violet's  breath 
And  voice  of  birds  that  sweetly  sing. 

Ice  that  coated  the  river's  surface 
Has  broken  up  and  floated  away; — 

After  serving  its  frigid  purpose 
There  was  no  reason  for  it  to  stay. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  51 

Then  down  the  river,  'tis  floating  fast, 
Melting  as  it  drifts  within  the  stream; 

Under  the  sun's  rays  it  cannot  last, 
And  fades  away  like  a  fleeting  dream. 

Bright  the  fields  that  from  under  the  snow 

Emerge  into  nature's  grand  array, 
As  the  tender  grass  begins  to  grow 

And  with  the  west  winds  already  play. 

Buds  and  blossoms  are  bursting  open 

With  fullness  of  beauty  and  delight; 
The  charm  of  spring  is  fully  broken 

As  morning  follows  the  gloom  of  night. 

Soft  winds,  laden  with  the  scent  of  spring, 
Fill    the    heart    with    new    zest    of    rapture, 

As  through  the  air  their  melodies  ring 
And  lay  await  our  souls  to  capture. 

Oh!  sweet  season  of  springtime  and  mirth, 

Bless  us  again  as  thou  hast  before; 
Bless  all  the  lands  of  this  endless  earth 

And  let  us  rejoice  forevermore. 


March,  1919. 


52  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

ANTICIPATION 

As  night  anticipates  the  dew  drops 
And  morning  the  glorious  sunshine, 

So  my  longing  for  you  never  stops 
With  your  image  before  me  sublime. 

Flowers  look  to  the  golden  sunlight 
To  sustain  their  beautiful  array, 

And  perish  ere  the  coming  of  night 
If  not  nourish'd  by  the  light  of  day. 

On  far-off  mountains  and  distant  plain 
A  squirrel  to  its  mate  is  calling, 

While  fond  thoughts  of  you  return  again, 
As  the  Autumn  leaves  are  fast  falling. 

If  "hope  deferred,  sickens  the  heart" 
And  thy  presence  appears  not  to  me, 

How  can  I  withstand  the  sick'ning  smart 
Of  this  prolonged  absence  from  thee? 

We  grasp  at  the  shadow  of  a  cloud 
That,  hanging  in  the  heavens  above, 

Would  render  us  more  happy  and  proud 
By  entwining  the  ties  of  our  love. 

It  is  thus  in  anticipation 

Of  brighter  days  that  may  intervene, 
We  live  on  the  intoxication 

Of  a  constant  delusion  and  dream. 

We  build  for  the  future,  castles  there 
With  a  vision  of  splendor  and  peace, 

That  is  as  free  from  trouble  and  care 
As  the  poetical  realms  of  Greece. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  53 

From  over  the  seas  and  far-off  isles 

Where  tropical  trees  wave  to  and  fro; 
Where  the  balmy  breeze  and  sunlight  smiles 

Upon  the  rivers  that  slowly  flow. 

We  dream  of  those  fantastic  abodes 

In  distant  lands  of  fruit  and  flowers 
Without  regard  to  the  thorny  roads 

That  lie  along  this  journey  of  ours. 

The  spirit  of  hope  is  displayed 

In  looking  beyond  the  present  state, 
And  joy  of  the  future  is  portray'd 

When   our  ships   sail   through   the   Golden   Gate. 

Anticipation  its  goal  has  sought, 

No  further  fancy  leads  us  astray; 
Yet  how  little  is  the  prize  we  fraught 

In  looking  toward  a  future  day? 

Happy  is  he  who  seizes  the  hour 

And  looks  not  on  the  hopes  that  arise, 
But  scents  the  sweetness  of  the  flower 

Ere  it  fades  away  and  quickly  dies. 

SMI   Francisco,  California,   1919. 


54  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 


A  LITTLE  RED  LEAF 

From  under  the  snow  and  the  shade  of  pines 
A  little  red  leaf  peered  forth  its  head 

To  welcome  the  light  which  pierced  the  vines 
That  sheltered  the  spot  while  it  was  dead. 

How  sweet  springtime  brings  back  the  latent  life, 
And  delicate  beauty  of  tender  leaves 

Reveal  the  victory  o'er  winter's  strife 
As  the  harvest  is  fraught  with  golden  sheaves. 

Sequestered  protection  thou  hast  found 
In  the  infinite  care  of  nature's  breast; 

While  cold  winds  blew  and  chilled  the  ground, 
Thou  wert  slumbering  in  reposeful  rest. 

Then  returns  the  touch  of    the  soft  wind's  breath 
To  inspire  thy  hopes  to  a  brighter  scene, 

And  recalls  to  thee  that  "there  is  no  death." 
But  only  'wak'ning  from  a  long  sweet  dream. 

Oh!  could  I  recall  my  lost,  loved  wife, 
And  vanish  the  years  of  trouble  and  grief 

That  have  crowned  my  restless,  aimless  life, 
With  the  return  of  the  Little  Red  Leaf. 

Hope,  Idaho,  March,   1903. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  55 

COMING   OF   CHRISTMAS 

Hail!  hail  the  coming  of  Christmas  time! 

With  all  the  joy  that  we  can  render, 
While    heaven    resounds    with    church    bells'    chime 

And  earth  is  cloth'd  in  snow-white  splendor. 

Whether  snow  or  rain  or  cold  or  mild, — 
From  far-off  north  to  the  southern  seas; 

It  is  the  hope  of  every  child 
To  participate  in  Christmas  trees. 

Rejoicing  is  NOT  of  one  and  all, 

For  some  have  felt  the  weight  of  sorrow; — 
Burdens  of  sadness  upon  them  fall 

Yesterday,  today  and  tomorrow. 

Youth,  the  age  in  which  we  see  glowing 
With  the  romance  of  life  that  is  sweet, 

Like  a  river,  ever  onward  flowing 
Toward  the  destiny  it  is  to  meet. 

We  fainly  review  and  remember 

The  pleasure  of  those  juvenile  years, 
When  the  coming  days  of  December 

Brought  carols  of  Christmas  to  our  ears. 

Then  away  to  town,  both  young  and  old, 

To  behold  the  stores  with  pretty  toys, 
That  fill'd  the  windows  with  shining  gold 

And  pleased  alike  the  girls  and  boys. 

But  the  time  comes  when  this  is  ended; — 

Others  have  taken  their  place  to  fill 
Whose  youth  with  age  has  long  since  blended 

And    naught    but    mem'ry    remains    there     still. 

December  1,   1918. 


56  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 


POEM  OF  THE  PLAINS 

The  plains  of  the  past  and  plains  today 

Mark  the  contrast  of  one  generation; 
The  new  appears,  the  old  passed  away, 

Leaving  a  wake  of  strange  sensation. 

Transition,  rapid  and  cruel, 

Follows  the  effect  of  man's  desire; 
When  foe  meets  foe  and  fights  a  duel, 

Chords  are  broken  from  the  heart's'  fond  lyre. 

From  the  fighting  Indian's  native  land, 

Wild  and  weird  and  undisturbed; 
The  roaming  bison  pawed  the  sand 

Where  freedom's1  sway  was  never  curbed. 

Vast,  level  expanse  of  gray  and  green, 
Tinged  in  the  distance  with  crimson  stain 

Where  slowly  runs  the  shallow  stream 
That  winds  across  the  arid  plain. 

Upon  the  shallow,  treeless  banks  rise 
From  the  Indian's  meager  camp,  by  day, 

Curling  smoke  that  blends  into  the  skies 
On  the  hazy  horizon  far  away. 

Home  of  the  buffalo,  home  of  the  Chief: 
Sublimely  grand  in  their  primitive  pride, 

Ere  the  white  man  came  and  brought  them  to  grief, 
Slaying  and  slaughtering  them,  side  by  side. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  57 

As  history  tells  and  carnage  spells, 

Fleeting  years  have  left  no  more  of  them — 

A  sad  memory  forever  dwells 
About  the  red  man's  sad  requiem. 

Migrating  birds  that  darkened  the  skies 

Enflight  to  the  warm  Southern  seas, 
Are  no  more  seen  in  the  golden  sunrise 

Nor  heard  in  the  soft  summer  breeze. 

The  blue  smoke  that  went  up  from  the  tent, 
The  dim  light  that  flashed  out  by  night, 

Have  forever  and  ever  been  spent 
In  the  cause  that  was  infinitely  right. 

The  spirit  of  romance  has  subsided; 

The  wild  West  has  been  tranquilized — 
The  ways  of  the  cowboy  divided, 

When  the  plains  become  civilized. 

Oh,  beautiful  plains,  how  grand  to  behold; 

The  past,  replete  with  tragic  history; 
The  present,  with  fields  of  green  and  gold, 

That  unfold  thy  deepest  mystery. 

Western  Kansas,  March  1st,  1912. 


58  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 


MIND'S   WANDERING 

From  far  away  China  and  Japan 
To  the  waterfalls  of  Assouan; 
From  old  Arabia's  barren  shore 
To  the  west  winds  of  Singapore. 

From  the  cold,  icy  Polar  seas 
To  the  emerald  Pyrenees; 
From  the  heights  of  Orizoba 
To  the  plains  of  Manitoba. 

From  India's  highest  mountains 
Td  Italy's  flowing  fountains; 
From  Louisiana's  sugar  cane 
To  Arizona's  arid  plain. 

From  the  Ohio  river's  mouth 
To  cotton  fields  of  sunny  south; 
From  Wyoming's  cerulific  skies 
To  Hawaii's  eternal  paradise. 

From  the  land  of  Evangeline 
To  the  garden  of  Gethsemane; 
From  Colorado's  richest  mine 
To  the  historic  river  Rhine. 

From  Manila's  prison  cordon 
To  the  sacred  River  Jordan; 
From  Judea's  hills,  brown  and  barren, 
To  the  fertile  Plain  of  Sharon. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  59 

Thus  my  mind  wanders  o'er  these  scenes 
That  appear  to  me  as  vivid  dreams; — • 
They  are,  as  a  fire,  dying  low, 
Stirred  again,  renews  the  glow. 

How  oft  I  wish  I  could  recall 
The  former  romance  of  them  all; 
And  live  anew  their  joyous  spell 
That  once  upon  me  lightly  fell. 

But  previous  thought  from  my  mind  flees 
When  passing  to  the  Antipodes;  ' 
As  if  by  one  unbounded  sweep 
From  here  to  there  I  quickly  leap. 


1919. 


60  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 


SEVEN  TO  SEVENTY-SEVEN 

I  saw  a  timid  little  girl  today, 

Her   hair   was   light,    her   eyes   blue    as   heaven; 
The  only  words  she  consented  to  say 

Were,  "my  name  is  Ruth,  my  age  is  seven." 

I  saw  a  maiden  sweet  and  fair  today, 
Of  that  buoyant  youth  I  have  often  seen; 

And  beautiful  flowers  along  the  way 
Crowned  her  radiant  life  at  seventeen. 

I  saw  a  vivacious  woman  today 

Who  seemed  the  queen  of  earth  and  heaven; 
She  looked  so  graceful  and  grand  and  gay, 

And  supremely  proud  at  twenty-seven. 

I  saw  a  woman  in  the  fields  today 

Whose  brow  was  knit,  and  her  face  was  riven 
With  the  work  that  along  her  pathway  lay, 

In  the  noonday  life  at  thirty-seven. 

I  saw  a  woman  reflecting  today 
Upon  the  pure  ways  that  lead  to  heaven; 

To  juvenile  friends  she  wish'd  to  convey 
The  fullness  of  life  a|  forty-seven. 

I  saw  a  lady  on  the  sward  today 

Whose  devotion  to  home  had  long  been  given, 
Whose  head  was  bending  and  hair  growing  gray, 

As  she  was  failing,  at  fifty-seven. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  61 

I  saw  a  lady  with  frail  form  today; 

The  raptures  of  life  that  youth  had  given 
Had  passed,  like  flowers,  into  decay — 

The  result,  she  said,  of  sixty-seven. 

I  saw  a  sainted  old  lady  today 

Whose  tranquil  soul  was  linked  to  heaven; 
She  bore  that  ever  peaceful,  Christian  way, 

And  this  rich  reward,  at  seventy-seven. 


— The  extraordinary  beauty  of  nature  never  deteriorates, 
but  the  impressiveness  of  it  does,  from  long  continuation 
and  constant  contact;  while  spiritual  beauty  is  enhanced 
and  wears  not  away;  but  like  the  accumulation  of  immacu 
late  moss  on  the  trunks  of  forest  trees  and  boulders  of 
the  seashore,  becomes  brighter,  more  beautiful  and  per 
manent  from  having  long  been  bathed  by  the  divine  ele 
ments  that  contribute  to  its  inviolable  existence. 


62  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

PENSIVE  PARTING 

O'er  hills  and  valleys  and  distant  plains 
To  the  beautiful  city  of  Denver, 

My  thoughts  go  back  in  saddened  strains 
As  these  selective  lines  I  send  her. 

Loath  I  was  to  leave  that  magic  home 
Where  trees  and  flowers   and  birds   abound; 

But  the  longing  of  my  soul  to  roam 
Caught  the  ocean's  beckoning  sound. 

I  feel  the  sting  of  painful  parting 
As  one  who  takes  a  reluctant  course, 

But  could  not  help  the  final  starting 
As  it  fill'd  my  heart  with  deep  remorse. 

I  saw  the  pretties  on  the  table 
And  I  saw  the  pictures'  on  the  wall, 

Just  as  they  were  when  she  was  able 
To  paint  them  perfectly,  one  and  all. 

Treasured  objects  from  far  and  near 
Are  assembled  in  this  sacred  spot, 

Rendering  their  presence  far  more  dear 
By  that  sweet  symbol,  "forget  me  not." 

Oh!  golden  thoughts  of  past  and  present 
Of  one  whose  beauty  I  am  speaking; 

Whose  presence  makes  my  life  more  pleasant 
And  absence  sets  my  heart  to  weeping. 

The  golden  chain  of  love  now  broken 
Starts  my  restless  spirit  to  smarting 

Under  the  words  that  ne'er  were  spoken 
On  the  pain  of  this  "pensive  parting." 

Salt  Lake  City,  July  28,   1918. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  63 

TALE  OF  THE  TORREY  PINE 

(Described  from  a  photographic  postcard) 

There  is  a  tree  on  the  rugged  edge 

Of  California's  southern  shore, 
Whose  roots  are  imbedded  in  a  ledge 

That  leads  to  the  ocean's  open  door. 

A  tree  whose  trunk  is  aged  with  years; 

Its  body  blighted,  but  heal'd  anew, 
As  ifl  it  shed  some  serious  tears 

During  early  days  in  which  it  grew. 

A  tree  whose  short  and  bushy  branches 
Have  stood  the  storms  of  many  seasons, — 

Shelter'd  the  sheep  of  nearby  ranches 
When  they  came  for  dual  reasons. 

From  arid  pastures  they  found  their  way 
To  cooling  shades  of  that  tranquil  tree, — 

From  their  restless  fold  they  lov'd  to  stray 
And  listen  to  the  murmuring  sea. 

About  the  top  of  this  Torrey  pine 

Whose  limbs  are  gnarled  and  leaves  pale  green, 
There  clings  a  wiry,  rambling  vine 

That  forms  an  ever  beautiful  sheen. 

Sunlight  filters  through  this  filmy  crest 

Casting  shadows  on  the  glossy  sand, 
With  morning  shades  o'er  the  ocean's  breast 

And  evening  shades  o'er  the  rolling  land. 

Against  the  shore,  the  blue  billows  foam 
Beneath  the  shades  of  this  Torrey  pine, 

Where  lonely  travelers  love  to  roam 
And  revel  in  the  golden  sunshine. 

November  30,   1917. 


64  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

LINES  ACCOMPANYING  THE  GIFT  OF  A  RING 

(R.  G.  L.) 

Friendship  has  no  stated  time  nor  place 
For  welding  of  her  precious  chain; 

All  along  the  lane  of  life  we  trace 

The  links  that  stand  the  crucial  strain. 

Little  seeds  of  kindness,  sown  today, 
May  multiply  and  appear  tomorrow 

Along  the  journey  of  life's  pathway, 
And  heal  the  heart  of  many  a  sorrow. 

Then  to  my  dearly  beloved  Rose 

This  little  ring  I  fondly  tender 
As  the  symbol  of  love,  that  grows 

With  the  devotion  I  render. 

Memoir  to  her  trip  to  the  city, 
I  desire  this  treasure  to  impart: — 

For  oh,  what  a  blank  and  a  pity, 

If  'twere  not  the  off 'ring  of  my  heart ! 

As  sets  the  clear  diamond  in  its  crest 

Like  a  beautiful  star  in  the  skies, 
So  the  affections  in  my  breast, 

Silent  and  sacred,  forever  lies. 

Oh,  amethyst  of  violet  hue, 
Thy  beauty  is  a  charm  and  delight; 

Then  teach  me,  teach  me  how  to  be  true 
And  lead  me  in  the  rays  of  thy  light. 

From  city  to  the  land  of  the  West 
My  heart  goes  out  with  this  golden  ring, 

Hoping  to  the  lady  I  love  best 
Much  happiness  to  her  it  will  bring. 

Chicago,  Illinois,  August  31,  1914. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  65 

AUTUMN  IN  ARIZONA 

(Dedicated  to  Wm.  F.  Bean,  of  Belfast,  Maine.) 

The  skies  are  pallid,  the  soil  is  gray, 

Yet  the  blending  of  cedar  and  pine 
Renders  the  vista  this  autumn  day 

Supremely  beautiful,  grand,  sublime. 

Great  herds  of   sheep   and   goats  clothe  the  vales 

In  a  moving  mass  of  black1  and  white, 
As  the  closing  day  serenely  pales 

Into  the  stillness  of  autumn  night. 

Immense  columns  of  solid  sandstone 

Defy  the  vicissitudes  of  time, 
While  winds  of  ages,  to  us  unknown, 

Have  trac'd  their  walls  with  a  tint  of  lime. 

Pine  trees  on  the  Arizona  crest 
Spread  their  branches  in  the  azure  light, 

Rendering  an  ever  peaceful  rest 

For  migrating  birds  ere  taking  their  flight. 

As  calmness  of  day,  so  is  the  night; — 

Distant  mountains  in  majestic  form 
Assume  a  weird,  wonderful  sight, 

Preceding  the  hours  of  autumn's  storm. 

Fresh  snow  upon  'Frisco's  lofty  peaks 

Glistens  in  the  eternal  blue  skies 
With  all  the  glory  that  nature  speaks 

Where  infinite  heights  within  her  lies. 


66  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

Autumn  days,  how  serenely  they  pass! — 
No  rainfall  nor  falling  of  the  leaves, 

Nor  a  gentle  ripple  of  the  grass, 

Nor  the  slightest  waving  of  the  trees. 

Hazy  expanse  of  shimmering  sheets 
Stretch  forth  to  the  distant  horizon, 

Where  vision  of  earth  and  heaven  meets 
In  the  constant  sea  of  elysian. 

Then  softly  the  shade  of  evening  falls 
Upon  the  beautiful  gems,  unset, 

Around  the  western  cornelian  walls 
At  the  glorious  golden  sunset. 

October  31,  1918. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  67 


GOLDEN  WEDDING 

Fifty  years  you  have  been  united 
In  that  blissful  bond  of  wedded  life; 

Where  the  soul  is  truly  delighted 

With   the   pronouncing   of   "Man   and  Wife." 

Far  away  in  those  juvenile  days, 

When  you  joined  your  hearts  together; 

Fond  memory  still  around  you  plays 
Of  clear  and  sometimes  stormy  weather. 

Morning  of  life  has  its  hopeful  goal 
As  flowers  burst  forth  in  buoyant  array 

To  please  the  sight  and  charm  the  soul, 
As  the  sun  goes  down  at  close  of  day. 

Through  fifty  years  of  pleasure  and  pain 

You've   follow'd   the   trail   of  two   as   one; — 

Battles  have  been  lost  and  won  again 
Since  taking  the  course  you  first  begun. 

May  months  and  years  of  peace  continue 

As  the  twilight  is  softly  shedding 
Rays  of  joy  that  abide  within  you, 

On  the  eve  of  your  Golden  Wedding. 


68  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

WHEN  I  MISS  THEE  MOST 

(These  sentimental  lines  were  instigated  and  inspired  by  physical  illness, 
accompanied  by  that  retrospective  mood  commonly  known  as  homesickness, 
while  lying  in  the  throes  of  discouragement  and  despair.  It  is  but  the  common 
lot  of  all  who  have  lost  their  dearest  and  best  friend — mother — and  realize  the 
irreparability  and  ineffaceability  of  that  loss,  when  sickness  and  suffering  in 
evitably  overtakes  them.) 

I  miss  thee  most,  departed  mother, 
When  stricken  with  anguish  and  pain; — 

Thoughts  quicken  of  thee  as  no  other, 
And  bear  me  back  to  our  home  again. 

I  miss  the  tender  touch  of  your  hand 

And  the  anxious  glance  of  your  eyes, 
While  lying  in  this  tropical  land, 

Under  the  cover  of  beautiful  skies. 

Sunlight  falls  on  the  beds  of  flowers 

While    mellow    winds    bear    their    bloom    away; 
Showing  thus  how  treasures  of  ours 

Have  come,  but,  alas!  come  not  to  stay. 

I  miss  thee  most  when  day  starts  to  fade 
And  stillness  gathers  over  my  room; — 

When  darkness  stretches  o'er  hill  and  glade 
With  sadness  and  solitude  and  gloom. 

I  miss  thee  most,  sainted  mother,  dear, 

As  I  lie  in  this  state  of  dismay 
Without  thy  presence  to  allay  my  fear, 

As  you  could,  in  a  mother's  sweet  way. 

My  mind  is  dwelling  on  scenes  like  those 
That  convey  us  back  to  what  has  been, 

As  ever  onward  the  river  flows, 
But  ne'er  returns  to  its  origin. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

I  miss  thee  most  in  those  little  things, 
So  kind  and  faithful  upon  thy  part; 

When  their  memory  unto  me  brings 
Affectionate  feelings  of  my  heart. 

Thy  very  presence  would  be  to  me 
What  morning  sun  is  to  the  flowers, 

If  thy  peaceful  face  I  could  but  see 
And  renew  those  quiet,  happy  hours! 

But  there  is  no  recalling  them  now; — 
Those  juvenile  days  of  life  are  o'er; 

And  the  effects  of  time  clouds  my  brow 
With  their  shadows,  past  forever  more. 

I  miss  thee  most  at  the  close  of  day, 
When  all  is  solemn  about  my  room; 

Where  sad  mem'ries  around  me  play 
And  call  me  back  to  thy  silent  tomb ! 

January,  1919. 


70  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

MY  DIAMOND  RUBY  RING 

From  Kimberley's  distant  diamond  fields 
These    beautiful    stones    have    found    their    way, 

As  the  softest,  brightest  starlight  yields 
Radiance  after  the  close  of  day. 

Under  cloudless  skies  of  perfect  blue 
These  little  gems  cast  their  sparkling  light 

In  that  rays  of  iridescent  hue 
That  mock  the  sun  by  day  and  stars  by  night. 

As  whitecaps  flash  o'er  the  restless  sea 
And  brighten  the  crest  of  rolling  waves, 

So  do  these  diamonds  bring  joy  to  me, 
And  dismal  thoughts  their  presence  saves. 

Oh,  rich  red  ruby  of  pigeon's  blood, 
That  sparkles  like  effervescing  wine, 

From  the  valley  of  Irrawaddy's  flood 
To  the  hills  of  Burmah's  richest  mine. 

India's  far  off  emerald  shores 
Bear  not  such  beautiful  stones  as  these, 

While  Burmah's  classiest,  choicest  stores 
Strive  the  most  fastidious  to  please. 

Through  cold  or  heat  or  rain  or  snow 
These  radiant  stones  of  red  and  white, 

Remain  with  me  where're  I  go, 
And  cheer  my  way  both  morning  and  night. 

The  stars  of  heaven  cease  not  to  shine, 
Neither  will  these  gems  when  I  am  dead; 

But  will  adorn  other  hands  than  mine 
When  their  transient  joys  from  me  have  fled. 

Rangoon,  Burnish,  September,  1913. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  71 


DESSIE  AND  HIS  DOG 

(Verses  suggested  by  the  affection  and   indefatigable  fidelity  of  a  wander 
ing  dog  toward  his  newly  found  friend.) 

Dessie  lived  upon  a  quiet  farm, 

As  many  boys  have  lived  before, 
Where  beasts  and  birds  complete  the  charm 

Of  juvenile  life  and  rural  lore. 

One  autumn  day  there  came  a  lonely  dog 
Across  the  pasture  fields  of  Dessie's  herd; 

He  would  chase  a  chicken  and  bite  a  hog 
As  quick  as  Dessie  pronounced  the  word. 

Aimless  and  friendless,  his  "wild  oats"  sowing, 

Far  from  the  land  of  his  happy  home, 
Keener  and  keener  his  hunger  growing 

As  he  could  not  discover  a  bone. 

Now  Dessie  was  a  kindly  hearted  boy 
Who  wished  to  help  this  dog's  condition, 

And  aided  him  in  his  dogship's  joy 
By  placing  him  in  a  new  position. 

Human  like,  they  studied  each  other, 
Their  friendship  growing  firmer  and  faster, 

Until  they  bore  as  brother  to  brother, 
That  love  a  dog  displays  for  his  master. 

Destined  to  farm,  he  must  build  a  name; 

From  early  morning  'till  late  at  night 
He  trav'led  with  Dessie,  through  sun  and  rain, 

And  never  was  known  to  be  out  of  sight. 


72  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

About  the  house,  the  barn — no  matter  where — 
If  Dessie  went  out  to  hitch  up  a  horse, 

This  fond  and  faithful  dog  was  always  there 
As  if,  without  him,  it  couldn't  be,  of  course. 

Up  with  the  sun,  he  would  lead  the  way, 
Where  the  plowman's  daily  workr  begun; 

And  in  some  quiet  spot,  beneath  the  hay, 
Would  wait  until  Bessie's  work  was  done. 

Then  with  the  plowman's  tired,  homeward  steed 
Their  steps  together  they'd  slowly  retrace, 

And  watch  the  hungry  horses  eat  their  feed 

In    the    evening    shades    of    this    tranquil    place. 

At  meal  time,  always  looking  for  a  bone, 
He  was  a  good  old  dog,  so  Dessie  said, 

Forever  faithful,  but  deaf  as  a  stone, 
And  if  allow'd,  would  steal  upstairs  to  bed. 

"Seeds  of  kindness"  scattered  here  and  there 
Like  sunbeams  penetrating  clouds  and  fog, 

Help  the  animals  their  burden  to  bear 
And  tells  the  story  of  "Dessie  and  his  dog." 

Garden  City,  Missouri,  May,   1912. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  73 

THE  COLDEST  CURRENT 

POEM    OF    SATIRE 

From  the  mouth  of  the  Lena  river, 
Where  cold  causes  the  heart  to  shiver, 
To  the  hottest  place  upon  the  globe 
That  man  has  yet  been  able  to  probe. 

Difference  of  three  hundred  degrees 
From  Sahara  to  the  Arctic  seas; — 
The  two  extremes  of  heat  and  cold, 
As  silver  is  the  reverse  of  gold. 

Sahara's  heat  I  need  not  mention — 
In  this  case  it  is  not  the  question; 
Of  Siberia's  northern,  frigid  zone 
I  shall  try  to  speak  and  speak  alone. 

The  coldest  current  through  this  region 
Is  closely  allied  to  a  legion 
That,  perhaps  to  one  is  highly  pleasing, 
But  to  another,  fairly  freezing. 

However,  we  scarcely  know  nor  care 
How  much  other's  sorrow  we  should  share; 
If  by  passing  through  the  fickle  fire 
We  fulfill  our  ardent  heart's  desire. 

Severely  unpleasant  and  forlorn 
Is  the  sharp  sting  of  a  woman's  scorn, 
When,  for  some  cause,  she  has  undertaken, 
Means  by  which  her  best  friend  is  forsaken. 


74  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

The  coldest  current,  that  through  my  heart 
Struck  me  dumb  as  a  poisoned  dart, 
And  left  me  dazed  in  confusion 
Upon  the  throne  of  her  delusion. 

As  an  iceberg  toward  the  north  pole, 
So  her  cold  attitude  froze  my  soul, 
While  absence  should  have  made  her  kind 
To  sooth  the  soreness  of  my  mind. 

But  the  coldest  current  of  her  breast 
Was  equal  to  a  modern  ice  chest, 
And  the  coldness  of  her  icy  scorn 
All  pleasure  from  my  heart  has  torn. 

The  irony  of  those  delusive  days 
That  was  cast  about  in  many  ways, 
Was  born  of  fancy  and  lived  in  vain, 
As  upon  my  soul  it  left  its  pain. 

From  the  shortest  days  of  December 
There  came  surprises,  I  remember; 
And  by  the  month  of  February, 
Was  evidence  she  soon  would  marry. 

Passing  events,  no  longer  in  disguise, 
Revealed  the  truth  before  my  eyes, 
And  I  rejoiced  to  know  at  last 
The  coldest  current  had  frozen  fast. 

A  passing  friendship  that  lives  and  dies 
Before  its  object  solidifies, 
Is  perhaps,  after  all,  better  lost 
Than  to  continue  at  any  cost. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  75 

Through  the  course  of  such  strange  environ 
Rust  eats  away  the  hardest  iron 
And  destroys,  ere  long,  the  vital  part 
That  portends  to  heal  a  wounded  heart. 


March,  1919. 


PLEASING  PERPLEXITY 

Storms  of  trouble  may  rise  before  me, 

Distance  and   absence  may   grieve   my  soul; 

Yet  through  it  all  I  will  adore  thee 
As  the  changing  seasons  swiftly  roll. 

Links  of  friendship  that  were  welded  fast 

Endure  the  crucial  test  of  time, 
And  fondly  turn  to  the  happy  past 

With  a<  reverence  almost  sublime. 

If  our  path  through  life  is  divided 

As  platonic  paths  are  apt  to  be, 
I  only  wish  my  love  had  subsided 

Ere  I  became  so  enwrap'd  in  thee. 


June,   1917. 


76  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

EIGHT  TO  EIGHTY-EIGHT 

(A  mental  portrait  of  the  diversified  journey  of  masculine  life  from  youth 
to  old  age.) 

I  saw  a  bright  little  boy  today; 

His  face  was  sweet,  his  hair  soft  and  straight; 
He  tripped  along  the  busy  highway 

With  that  joy  that  marks  the  age  of  eight. 

Down  in  the  valley  at  the  river's  bend, 

Where  grazing  cattle  are  often  seen, 
I  met  a  little  adolescent  friend 

On  that  beautiful  border  of  eighteen. 

Out  in  the  fields  of  alluvial  soil 

A  plowman  toils  both  early  and  late; 
Fears   no   storm   nor   strife,   perchance,   will    foil 

His  happy  hopes  and  plans  of  twenty-eight. 

Out  in  the  meadow  of  full  noonday  sun 

Stands  a  strong  man  in  the  harvest  of  fate; 

With  splendid  form  and  work  well  begun 
At  the  buoyant  age  of  thirty-eight. 

I  saw  in  the  city  of  wealth  and  woe 
A  man  whose  presence  was  truly  great; 

His  fountain  of  strength  continued  to  flow 
As  he  reached  the  summit,  at  forty-eight. 

Upon  the  banks  of  a  tranquil  stream 

I  saw  a  man  solemnly  hesitate, 
As  if  the  stream  revealed  a  dream, 

That  thrilled  his  soul,  at  fifty-eight. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  77 

I  saw  a  man  whose  hair  was  iron  gray, 

Upon  his  life  he  seemed  to  meditate; 
From  former  thoughts  he  turned  away 

And  changed  his  course,  at  sixty-eight. 

Around  an  old  familiar  fireside 

I  saw  a  frail  man  feebly  participate 
In  the  sacred  joys  that  with  him  abide 

At  the  declining  age  of  seventy-eight. 

I  saw  a  sainted  man  whose  hair  was  white, 
His  eyes  were  dim,  yet  could  penetrate 

The  films  of  darkness  through  heavenly  light 
And  see  his  final  rest,  at  eighty-eight. 

Chicago,   Illinois,    February   29,    1916. 


78  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

WHEN  THE  CLOUDS  ROLL  BY 

POEM  OF  OPTIMISM 

After  the  storm  and  the  clouds  roll  by 
Ther'l  be  brighter  days  for  you  and  I; 
We  must  therefore  be  contented  today, 
For  the  future  will  provide  a  way. 

There  never  has  been  a  lane  so  long 
That  turned  not  from  a  sigh  to  song, 
And  darkest  hours  that  beset  our  flight 
Are  follow'd  by  a  radiant  light. 

Troubles,   though   they   appear  thick   and   fast, 
Like  mist  before  sunshine,  cannot  last; 
As  sunlight  breaks  through  the  misty  sky, 
So  will  our  joys  when  the  clouds  roll  by. 

Life  would;  not  be  appreciated 
If  sometimes  things  were  not  mismated, 
And  it  is  not  in  the  gold's  mining 
So  much  as  'tis  in  its  refining. 

The  ore  being  purified  at  last 

By  having  through  the  crucible  pass'd, 

Glistens  brighter  in  its  new  array 

As  changes  take  place  from  day  to  day. 

The  atmosphere,  when  purged  by  rain, 
Is  rendered  clear  and  cool  again, 
And  leaves  a  charm  in  the  bright  blue  sky 
That  compensates,  when  the  clouds  roll  by. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  79 

We  must  pass  through  some  very  dark  days 
To  understand  the  Creator's  ways, 
And  when  that  darkness  is  turn'd  to  light 
We  realize  His  supreme  foresight. 

When  vanity  comes  before  a  fall 
There  is  that  crush  that  humbles  us  all; 
But  when  flowers  meet  the  balm  of  dew 
Their  colors  take  on  a  brighter  hue. 

And  so  it  is  with  the  human  heart, 
The  trivial  things  that  make  us  smart 
Will  be  forgotten  by  you  and  I 
As  time  goes  on  and  the  "clouds  roll  by." 


1919. 


80  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 


PLEASING  THE  PUBLIC 

Pleasing  the  public  in  Pullman  cars 
These  times  of  fastidious  people, 

Isf  difficult  as  counting  the  stars 
From  the  heights  of  a  gilded  steeple. 

Strong  and  feeble,  riding  together 
With  only  a  partition  between, 

Are  little  concerned  as  to  whether 
Acts  of  one  by  the  other  are  seen. 

Here  devolves  that  noble  feature 
So  rare  and  rich  in  women  and  men, 

Where  we  can  aid  a  fellow  creature 
And  be  by  him  rewarded  again. 

The  little  things  that  yield  true  pleasure 
At  the  most  critical  time  of  need 

Are  those  that  apply,  in  a  measure, 
To  the  performing  of  a  good  deed. 

Not  only  requires  an  eye  and  hand 
But  the  prompting  of  mind  and  spirit, 

The  wants  of  people  to  understand 
Or  something  that  comes  very  near  it. 

Not  always  knowing  how  to  proceed 
In  frequent  cases  of  good  intent; 

In  trying  to  meet  manifest  need 
The  object  perhaps  we  circumvent. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  81 

Inherent  prejudice  that  exists 

In  many  people  of  narrow  minds, 
Creates  a  thread  of  obstinate  twists 

In  the  human  wreath  of  many  kinds. 

Man  always  meets  man  about  half  way 

Regardless  of  the  place  it  may  be, 
And  kindness  has  been  proven  to  pay 

As  the  best  asset  and  the  best  fee. 

Many  fine  friendships  have  been  founded 

On  the  strength  of  a  wise  beginning; 
Many  pleasant  words  have  been  sounded 

During   the   course    of   friendship's   winning. 

Then  pleasing  the  public  is  an  art 

Acquired  by  precaution  and  care, 
That  can  be  done,  if  upon  the  start, 

They  are  willing  to  perform  their  share. 


1919. 


82  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 


To  my  little  iridescent  friend, 

As  a  joyous  Christmas  gift  I  send 

This  dog,  whose  pedigree  is  listed 

With  those  whose  tails  are  slightly  twisted. 

He  surely,  surely  will  protect  you 
If  burglars  should  sometimes  select  you 
As  a  victim  of  their  roguish  plight, 
And  slyly  disturb  you  after  night. 

"Boston  Terrier"  you've  wanted  bad 
During  dismal  days  and  nights  so  sad, 
Now  here  he  is,  my  youthful  lady, — 
Though  he  may  look  a  little  "shady." 

He  hails  from  Boston  town,  far  away, 
And,  unlike  some  dogs,  has  come  to  stay; 
O'er  the  world  he  longs  no  more  to  roam, 
But  settles  here  in  his  happy  home. 

With  other  dogs  he  will  scarcely  mix; 

He  pretends  to  do  no  fancy  tricks; 

But  will  guard  your  house  both  night  and  day, 

And  give  chase,  if  thieves  come  round  that  way. 

Then  may  he  with  you  ever  abide 
And  recall  again  at  Christmas  tide, 
Peace  and  joy  without  a  barrier 
Plac'd  upon  this  Boston  Terrier. 

Chicago,  December  20,   191& 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  83 


PAST  AND  PRESENT 

There  is  a  lady  in  Kansas  City 

Whose  hopes  have  long  been  blighted; 

It  really  is  an  awful  pity 
That  she  has  been  so  badly  slighted. 

A  year  ago  I  fooled  her  so 

That  now  I  wish  to  expiate 
That  delusive  act,  and  try  to  show 

There  is  respite  for  those  who  wait. 

A  mystic  little  trick  was  played 

Upon  this  innocent  one,  we  know, 
And  she  was  very  much  dismayed 

When  her  present  "hail'd"  from  Buffalo. 

These  Boston   goods,  like  babes  in  the  woods, 

Are  far  away  and  much  awry, — 
They  only  disturb  young  motherhoods 

And  make  the  envious  babies  cry. 

Then  dismiss  that  optimistic  dream, 

Take  up  the  realistic  being; 
For  things  are  not  always  what  they  seem, 

And  mere  believing  is  not  seeing. 

But  I  wish  not  to  deceive  you  now, 
It  would  not  be  the  right  thing  to  do; 

In  fact  I  really  would  not  know  how 
To  fool  as  wise  a  woman  as  you. 


84  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

I'll  send  you  not  a  living  creature 
Of  brown  or  blue  or  red  or  yellow, 

But  something  whose  general  feature 
Is  white  and  black  and  gray  and  mellow. 

So  here  it  is,  in  natural  wool 

From  the  sturdy  sheep  of  western  lands, 
Carded  extra  fine  and  firm  and  full, 

By  the  poor  Navajo's  dextrous  hands. 

Then  may  this  rug  of  warmth  and  beauty 
Render  your  room  cozy  and  pleasant, 

When  little  acts  of  household  duty 
Remind  you  of  the  "past  and  present." 

Los  Angeles,  California,  December  20,  1917. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  85 

LAND  AND  SEA 

(Actutl  scenes  from  a  car  window  of  "The  Road  of  a  Thousand  Wonders.") 

On  the  way  from  San  Luis  Obispo 
To  the  great  city  of  San  Francisco, 
The  beautiful  hills  are  strewn  with  cattle 
Like  hundreds  of  men  marching  to  battle. 

Sometimes  the  scene  is  romantic  and  wild — 
Sufficient  to  charm  the  soul  of  a  child; 
Heights  and  hillsides  that  sheep  can  barely  tread 
Are  bounded  by  roads  like  a  silken  thread. 

Brown  hills  that  in  winter  will  change  to  green 
Are  terrac'd  like  the  hills  of  Palestine: 
Where  the  shepherd's  voice  is  lowly  ringing 
And  the  hungry  sheep  are  closely  clinging. 

Live  oak  trees  abound  in  eternal  green, 
Beautify  the  ground  and  endear  the  scene: 
Gardens  of  flowers  for  their  seeds  are  grown, 
After  their  beauty  and  brightness  have  flown. 

Golden  grain  enriches  the  rolling  land 

That  extends  ofttimes  to  the  ocean's  strand; 

While  the  boughs  of  prunes,  pears,  peaches  and  grapes 

Are  bending  with  fruit  in  a  thousand  shapes. 

Tomatoes,  in  that  wondrous  tint  of  red, 
Color  the  ground  as  if  some  wound  had  bled, 
While  fields  of  tobacco  in  splendid  array 
Extend  to  the  shores  of  the  beautiful  bay. 

Oh!  what  vieing  charms  has  this  land  for  me 
When  I  look  upon  the  murmuring  sea 
And  think  "how  glorious"  the  ocean's  shore 
As  its  billows  roll  up  forevermore. 

San    Francisco,    California,    September    13,    1918. 


86  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

CARESS  OF  THE  MOON 

(Dedicated  to  Mrs.  Dr.  Susillo  of  Columbia  University,  New  York  City.) 

Beautiful  moon  in  the  western  sky, 
Caressing  the  mild  murmuring  waves 

That  on  the  distant  horizon  lie 

In  that  reverie  where  nature  raves. 

Suspended  in  filmy,  floating  clouds 
That  approach  the  water's  shifting  sheen, 

Whose  surface  now  thy  soft  light  enshrouds 
And  changes  it  to  an  olive  green. 

Oh!  beautiful  moon  of  eastern  seas; 

As  I  see  thee  in  all  thy  glory; 
Mellowed  by  the  sweet  southern  breeze 

That  adds  to  thy  nocturnal  story. 

Alluring  touch  of  thy  rapt'rous  light 
Is  like  the  spell  of  a  maiden's  kiss, 

That  enchants  the  soul  with  deep  delight 
And  endows  it  with  immortal  bliss. 

Closer,  still  closer  the  water  calls 
To  the  mild  moonbeams  over  the  sea, 

As  darker,  darker  night  slowly  falls 
Upon  the  peaceful  tranquility! 

The  ship  sails  on  in  its  northern  flight 
Like  some  lonely  bird  flying  alone; 

Leaving  its  wake  in  silence  of  night 
Where  rays  of  the  moon  is  faintly  shown. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  87 

Then  stillness  pervades  the  deep,  dark  sea 

That  unites  the  grandeur  of  the  sky 
With  all  the  beauty  that  there  can  be 

When  earth  and  heaven  begin  to  vie. 

Piercing  stars  look  on  as  judges  do 
When  some  great  rival  is  taking  place, 

And  watch  the  victor  as  he  comes  through 
To   claim   the  prize   that  has   won   the   race. 

The  moon  begins  to  forsake  the  scene 

And  leave  the  night  unto  its  own, 
Just  as  awakening  from  a  dream, 

We  realize  the  phantom  has  flown. 

Then  to  this  beautiful  night  adieu; 

Thy  charms  have  vanish'd  only  too  soon; 
But  thy  heavn'ly  beauty  will  renew 

With  another  "Caress  of  the  Moon." 

Aden,  Arabia,  November,  1913. 


88  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

IN  THE  WOODLAND 


dedicated 


To    my   only    sister,    now    at    the    old    homestead,    these    pensive    lines    are 
cated. 


In  the  depths  of  beautiful  woodland 
I  stood  in  awe  at  the  dawn  of  day, 

Where  the  trees  by  the  breeze  were  fanned 
As  the  deep  forest  before  me  lay. 

Red  birds  and  robins  began  to  sing 

As  the  dewdrops  sweet'nd  the  morning  air, 
Making  the  woodland  with  music  ring 

In  exquisite  strains  everywhere. 

Beautiful  flowers  adorn  the  ground; 

May  apple  blossoms  and  dogwood  trees 
Permeate  the  air  for  miles  around, 

Then  blow  away  on  the  gentle  breeze. 

Golden  sunbeams  penetrate  the  scene 
And  light  a  flame  of  glorious  splendor 

Against  the  colors  of  richest  green 
That  gold  and  green  can  only  render. 

Beneath  the  shades  a  brook  is  flowing 
Like  a  silver  thread  through  hill  and  dale 

Where  violets  and  iris,  growing, 

Sweeten  the  charm  of  the  tranquil  vale. 

Enchanted  forest,  with  bush  and  vine 
That  intervene  the  trees  and  flowers, 

As  fond,  sweet  memories  entwine 
About  our  past  and  happiest  hours. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  89 

Years  have  passed  and  many  changes 

Since    first    we    saw    the    woodland's    glory; 

Deep  the  sorrows  and  wide  the  ranges 
Since  we  beheld  this  Woodland  story. 

The  hills  remain,  the  valleys  are  there; 

The  brook  runs  on  as  it  did  before, 
But  friends  have  drifted  everywhere 

And  will  return  to  us  no  more. 

Then  fare  thee  well,  dear  land  of  my  heart; 

The  joys  of  youth  have  forever  flown, 
For  the  time  has  come  I  must  depart 

And  turn  toward  the  future  unknown. 

Garden  City,  Missouri,  May  10,  1914. 


—It  is  no  disgrace  to  make  a  mistake,  but  oft-times  very 
humiliating. 


90  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

THINKING  OF  THEE 

Fond  thoughts  of  thee  around  me  rally 
Since  I  have  wandered  far  away; 

My  heart  returns  to  the  Kansas  valley, 
Where  quiet  reigns  at  the  close  of  day. 

I  cannot  find  in  this  far-away  land, 
Midst  ev'ry  fruit  and  flower  that  grows, 

A  flower  so  sweet,  a  tree  so  grand, 
As  that  perennial  Kansas  Rose. 

Foaming  surf  rolls  up  against  the  shore, 
Rugged  hills  outline  the  distant  lea; 

The  billows  roll  on  forevermore, 
While  I  am  fondly  thinking  of  thee. 

The  ocean,  in  all  its  majesty, 

Its  murmuring  sound  and  stormy  sights, 

Has  not  the  charm  that  thou  hast  for  me, 
In  the  sunlit  days  and  starlit  nights. 

Sublime  the  meeting  of  land  and  sea, 
Where  beauty  and  grandeur  serenely  rest; 

My  soul  is  wrapp'd  in  thoughts  of  thee, 
In  the  hours  of  absences'  trying  test. 

Oh!  meet  me  in  this  land  of  splendor, 
Where  birds  and  bees  enjoy  their  mating; 

Such  pleasures  you  can  sweetly  render, 
While  I  am  waiting,  fondly  waiting. 

Then  listen  to  my  lowly  reading 
As  I  stroll  upon  the  silver  strand, 

Where  my  heart  is  sincerely  pleading 
For  you  to  behold  this  lovely  land. 

Coast  of  California,  September,   1917. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  91 


DAWN  OF  DAY 

Faint  light  in  the  east  already  gleams 

Upon  the  high  rolling  hills  afar, 
And  disturbs  the  peace  of  pleasant  dreams 

With  vanishing  of  the  morning  star. 

Slowly  spreads  over  the  eastern  hills 
That  mellow  expanse  of  gray  and  gold, 

As  the  enraptured  soul  it  fills 

With  all  the  rapture  that  it  can  hold. 

Little  birds  announce  the  dawn  of  day 

By  their  cheerful  songs  throughout  the  trees 

While  sheep  and  cattle  begin'  to  bray 
As  gently  blows  the  murmuring  breeze. 

To  those  who  have  laid  on  beds  of  pain 
Throughout  the  turbulent  hours  of  night, 

There  comes  relief,  as  showers  of  rain 
Refresh  the  flowers  stricken  by  blight. 

To  those  who  on  beds  of  anguish  lay 
And  behold  the  morning  light  return, 

Rejoice  to  see  the  coming  of  day, 
Though  they  continue  their  sad  sojourn. 

As  day  dispels  the  darkness  of  night, 

So  are  our  hopes  renewed!  again 
By  that  presence  of  infinite  light 

That  to  the  end  our  trials  sustain. 


92  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

Oh!  how  glorious  the  dawn  of  day, 
When  golden  light  envelops  the  land; 

How  deep  the  prayers  we  long  to  pray 
And  extol  the  works  of  God  so  grand. 

Over  the  restless  and  rolling  seas, 
Over  the  frigid  and  torrid  zone 

And  over  the  Spanish  Pyrenees, 
Wherever  the  golden  sun  has  shone. 

Heavenly  light,  with  ultra-splendor 
Bursts  forth  in  a  glorious  array, 

And  all  the  world  with  beauty  render, 
As  the  change  takes  place  at  dawn  of  day. 

Oh!  how  rapturous  the  dawn  of  day 
With  its  mellow  light  o'er  land  and  sea, 

Blessing  the  sad  and  blessing  the  gay 
With  all  the  beauty  that  there  can  be. 

Then  gray  gives  way  to  a  golden  hue 
That  envelops  the  slow,  sluggish  Nile, 

While  the  sun  absorbs  the  fleeting  dew 
And  the  shadoof*  goes  on  all  the  while. 


*An  ancient  contrivance  for  elevating  water,  extensively  used  on  the  banks 
of  the  Nile  in  Egypt. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  92A 

THE  ROCK  AND  THE  ROSE. 
(Dialogue.) 

Said  the  rock  unto  the  timid  rose — 
Why  venture  thou  in  this  place  serene, 

To  blossom  a  day  where  no  one  knows, 
Then  perish  and  leave  thy  grave  unseen? 

Said  the  rose  unto  the  barren  rock, 

I  come  to  adorn  thy  hoary  crest 
And  mark  the  time  the  years  unlock, 

As  I  live  and  die  beneath  thy  breast. 

Said  the  rock  unto  the  palid  rose, 
I  am  bare  and  bleak  and  sometimes  cold, 

But  more  sublime  in  my  naked  pose, 
Than  all  the  beauty  that  thou  dost  hold 

Said  the  rose  unto  the  ancient  rock, 
I  am  frail  and  fragile,  weak  and  pure, 

But  in  the  earthquake's  awful  shock, 
You  cannot  stand  what  I  endure. 

Said  the  rock  unto  the  peaceful  rose, 

I  am  the  strength  of  all  creation, 
While  plains  and  valleys  around  me  chose 

To  call  thee  least  of  all  formation. 

Said  the  rose  unto  the  mighty  rock, 

My  Creator's  work  is  most  sublime, 
As  the  smallest  wheel  completes  the  clock 

That  measures  alike  our  common  time. 


92B  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

HE  WHO  PLANTS  A  TREE 

He  who  wisely  plants  a  tree  today 
Will  perpetuate  a  memory 
When  its  spreading  branches  beautify 
Little  landscapes  that  around  it  lie. 

He  who  plants  a  tree  in  thoughtful  youth 
Will  live,  perhaps,  to  confirm  this  truth; 
And  the  future,  strange  as  it  appears, 
Will  be  revealed  in  after  years. 

In  the  planting  of  a  tree  today 
He  bestows  pride  along  life's  highway 
And  leaves  a  memory  of  his  deeds 
As  plants  succeed  the  sowing  of  seeds. 

As  youth  itself  is  fraught  with  troubles 
So  is  the  tree  with  early  struggles, 
Until  it  passes  that  timid  stage 
In  which  we  note  the  coming  of  age. 

It  then  begins  to  assume  a  form 
That  affords  refuge  in  times  of  storm, 
And  extends  its  shade  both  east  and  west 
To  travelers  stopping  there  for  rest. 

The  beggar  and  bard  may  share  alike 
Shade  of  this  tree  in  passing  the  pike, 
And  birds  of  plumage  will  nestle  there, 
Selecting  a  place  their  young  to  bear. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  92C 

When  winds  wave  its  branches  to  and  fro 
As  springtime  comes  and  the  summers  go, 
And  Autumn  arrives  with  cutting  frost, 
Its  effulgent  charms  will  then  be  lost. 

Winter  winds  through  its  bare  boughs  will  moan 
After  the  days  of  Autumn  have  flown; 
Its  withered  leaves  having  been  shed, 
To  the  world,  it  is  dismal  and  dead. 

Yet  through  all  the  storms  of  ice  and  snow 
It  grows  on  as  seasons  come  and  go, 
Rendering  relief  for  those  who  mourn 
During  dismal  days  and  nights  forlorn. 

Thus  it  is,  who  plants  a  tree  today 

Has  left  a  mark  that  has  come  to  stay, 

And  will  confer  a  memory  dear 

Upon  those  who  come  from  far  and  near. 

He  who  fondly  plants  a  tree  today, 
Perchance,  like  falling  leaves,  will  drift  away, 
And  when  by  the  breeze  its  branches  wave, 
He  may  be  laid  in  his  lonely  grave. 

But  the  reward  will  repay  his  toil, 
Whether  it  be  in  far  foreign  soil, 
Or  in  America's  Golden  West 
Where  the  tree  itself  will  stand  the  test. 

Oh !  then  he  who  plants  a  tree  today, 
Is  surely  paving  the  future  way 
For  those  who  follow  his  thoughtful  spell 
And  note  the  story  the  tree  will  tell. 


92D  PO£MS  OF  PASTIME 

Then  praise  to  him  who  plants  a  tree  today, 
Though  'neath  its  shade  he  finally  lay, 
And  his  silent  tomb,  like  the  tree,  may  stand, 
Perpetual,  beautiful,  serenely  grand! 

September,  1919. 


IN  THE  WOODLAND. 

In  the  woodland,  the  brown  leaves  are  falling 
From  the  sting  of  Autumn's  fatal  frost; 

And  the  squirrel  to  its  mate  is  calling 
Like  a  squirrel  that  its  mate  has  lost. 

In  the  woodland,  summer  scenes  are  dying  :— 
Where  the  pink  and  violet  once  did  bloom 

Now  the  dead  and  faded  leaves  are  lying 
'Round  about  them  as  their  solemn  tomb. 

In  the  woodland,  the  wind  is  murm'ring  low 
Where  parting  summer  fain  would  linger  long, 

And  the  branches  are  waving  to  and  fro 
To  the  echo  of  the  thrush's  farewell  song. 

October,    1902. 


He  who  has  not  beheld  a  glorious  autumn  sunrise  from 
Tiger  Hill,  six  miles  above  Darjeeling,  India,  has  missed 
one  of  the  most  magnificent,  stupendous,  bewildering  and 
supremely  beautiful  sights  of  this  world.  It  is  the  grandest 
of  all  the  Creator's  masterpieces. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  93 


COURSE  OF  THE  RIVERS 

Onward,  onward  through  forest  and  plain, 
Threading  thy  way  along  fields  of  grain, 
From  lofty  mountains  to  distant  sea, 
Proclaiming  a  constant  mystery. 

Surging  downward  through  the  narrow  gorge 
Between  walls  of  rock  your  way  to  forge, 
Then  away  into  the  open  space 
As  if  some  wild  beast  to  give  a  chase. 

Symbolic  of  young  life  going  forth, 
So  starts  the  Red  River  of  the  North; 
From  the  high  lands  of  Minnesota 
Where  the  crystal  lakes  form  a  quota. 

Then  winding  thy  way  across  the  land 
Like  a  silver  thread  through  ashen  sand, 
Passing  vast  wheat  fields  in  their  order, 
Toward  the  Manitoba  border. 

Northward,  coursing  thy  serpentine  way, 
Peaceful  as  shades  of  a  summer  day; 
Coaching  the  storks  of  long,  slender  leg 
To  the  very  doors  of  Winnipeg. 

Reverting  now  to  the  sluggish  streams 
That  recall  to  us  some  hazy  dreams, 
As  they  slowly  pass  the  summer  shades 
Beneath  the  Florida  everglades. 


94  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

Serenely  flows  the  dark  Suwannee 
Through  pine  clad  lands  to  the  open  sea; 
Conveying  with  it  a  memory 
That  is  forever  sweet  to  me. 

Behold  the  clear  Penobscot  again 
Flowing    through    the    hilly    lands    of    Maine; 
Its  grassy  banks  and  odorous  pines, 
Fragrant  flowers  and  entwining  vines. 

Its  clear  depths  reflect  the  arching  trees 
That  gently  wave  with  the  eastern  breeze, 
And  leave  their  shadows,  morning  and  noon, 
During  the  beautiful  days  of  June. 

From  the  East  to  West  there  is  a  change, 
Where  rivers  rush  down  the  Cascade  range, 
And  ambuscades  of  ferns  and  flowers 
Are  moistened  by  the  mountain  showers. 

Oh!  raging  rivers  of  the  Far  Northwest, 
I  feel  at  times  that  I  love  them  best; 
As  through  the  forests  a  way  they  found 
To  finally  reach  the  Puget  Sound. 

Then  I  wander,  oh!  far,  far  away 
To  the  southern  streams  of  Florida; 
Where  from  them  I  must  sadly  sever, 
While  they  go  on  and  on  forever. 

March,  1919.       •   , 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  95 

THE  CAT  AND  THE  RAT 

(Poem  for  Bad  Boys.) 

"What  are  you  doing  around  this  house?" 
Said  the  long  tailed  rat,  somewhat  irate; 

"You  must  be  out  for  a  nice  fat  mouse, 
As  your  guilty  looks  would  indicate." 

Said  old  Tom  cat  to  the  long  tailed  rat, 

"I  am  prowling  about  for  pleasure, 
But  if  you  are  looking  for  a  spat, 

I'll  stop  and  quickly  'take  your  measure.'  " 

"I  don't  like  your  fancy,  feline  style," 

Said  the  rodent,  with  red  in  his  eye; 
"But  if  you  will  kindly  wait  awhile, 

I'll  see  you  in  'the  sweet  by  and  bye.' " 

"My  long  tailed  friend,"  says  old  Tom  cat, 

"You're  ultra  polite,  it  seems,  today, 
But  I  infer  you're  out  for  a  spat, 

And  will  be  pleas'd  to  meet  you  half  way." 

"Very  well,"  says  the  long  tailed  rat, 

"I'll  meet  you  in  the  cellar  tonight; 
We  will  neither  argue  this  nor  that, 

But  proceed  to  an  up-to-date  fight." 

The  next  few  hours  were  quietly  spent 

In  resting  up  for  the  big  melee, 
While  crowds  waited  the  coming  event 

With  all  the  eagerness  there  could  be. 


96  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

Then  at  it  they  went  with  all  their  might, 

Screaming    and    squealing    with     frightful    pain, 

Presenting  to  view  an  awful  sight 
As  on  each  other  fierce  blows  they  rain. 

It  seemed  a  case  of  "tit  for  tat" 

As  with  ev'ry  blow  there  went  a  cry, 
And  look'd  as  if  the  cat,  then  the  rat, 

Was  surely,  surely  doomed  to  die. 

Poor  old  Tom,  with  his  surplus  power, 
Needed  all  strength  he  could  get  together 

To  keep  from  showing,  this  crucial  hour, 
True  signs  of  the  dreaded  "white  feather." 

Furious  fight  of  that  awful  night 

Left  its  scars  upon  both  cat  and  rat, 
And  such  a  vicious,  bloody  sight 

Was  seldom  witnessed  after  that. 

They  stole  away  to  their  hiding  place 

To  rest  upon  laurels  lost  or  gain'd, 
Like  men  who  feel  a  galling  disgrace 

After  their  face  with  blood  is  stained. 

May  all  bad  boys  who  read  this  story, 

Take  a  lesson  from  the  cat  and  rat 
And  waive  their  claim  to  fistic  glory 

By  keeping  aloof  from  such  as  that. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  97 


IN  THE  REALMS  OF  ROSES 

In  the  infinite  realms  of  roses, 

With  an  array  of  beautiful  hue, 
There  is  an  effulgence  that  poses 

As  the  refreshment  of  morning  dew. 

Rare  richness  of  immaculate  white, 
Teeming  with  the  essence  of  sweetness, 

As  there  sheds  an  aurora  of  light 
On  the  beauty  of  their  completeness. 

Oh!  gorgeous  rose  of  topaz  yellow; 

We  will  bestow,  if  thou  but  let  us, 
Highest  praise  of  thy  breath  so  mellow, 

And  sweet  as  honey  of  Hymettus. 

Oh!  rapturous  rose  of  richest  red; 

Soft,  velvet  petals  that  fairly  speak; 
And  if  they  but  could,  it  would  be  said 

That  out  of  thy  depths  sweet  speeches  leak. 

Exquisite  rose  with  fresh  fragrance  fraught, 

Charming  colors  of  delicate  pink; 
Too  sweet  for  words  and  too  deep  for  thought 

As  in  thy  realms  we  silently  sink. 

Humming  birds  and  golden  butterflies 

Inhale  the  aroma  of  these  flowers 
In  this  land  of  constant  paradise, 

And  while  away  their  happiest  hours. 


98  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

Little  red  ramblers  unite  the  trees 

With  all  the  beauty  they  can  command, 

And  sweeten  the  balmy,  bracing  breeze 
That  ever  pervades  this  lovely  land. 

Eager  pilgrims  come  from  north  and  east 
To  evade  the  winter's  frost  and  snow; 

To  behold  this  wondrous  floral  feast 
And  watch  the  glorious  roses  grow! 

Within  this  enchanting  city  lies 

The  crown  of  all  that  man  disposes; 

To  be  beneath  the  ethereal  skies 

And  dwell  within  the  "Realms  of  Roses." 

Pasadena,  California,  April,   1919. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  99 


DESIDERATUM 

Flowers   have   their   time   in   which   to   bloom, 
Then  slowly  wither  away  and  die; — 

Leaves  are  subject  to  similar  doom 
As  Autumn  passes  serenely  by. 

But  man  is  ever  within  God's  call 
In  the  midst  of  his  supreme  career, 

As  one  by  one  friends  around  him  fall, 
With  the  rapid  passing  of  the  year. 

And1  in  his  diversified  state 

Is  not  immune  from  the  sting  of  sin, 
As  when  he  begins  to  dissipate, 

Contentment  leaves  and  trouble  sets  in. 

Chasing  shadows  that  are  never  sure, 
Looking  for  betterment  by  and  by; 

Longing  for  that  we  cannot  secure, 
Burdens  us  with  a  discordant  sigh. 

We  covet  life's  gilded  butterfly, 

Thinking  it  will  fulfill  our  desire, 
But  its  colors  fail  to  satisfy, 

And  leave  us  like  an  unquenched  fire. 

If  we  could  bask  in  soft  beds  of  ease 
And  sip  the  sweets  of  eternal  joy, 

I  doubt  if  our  hearts  it  would  appease, 
Unless  we  were  free  from  all  annoy. 


100  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

If  with  the  things  that  to  us  are  sent, 
Whether  bitter,  sweet  or  none  at  all, 

We  could  therewith  but  be  content, 
We  would  not  grieve  over  rise  or  fall. 

But  the  human  heart,  prone  to  wander, 
Fickle  and  false  throughout  its  leaven, 

Proves  that  our  days  of  grace  we  squander, 
And  there  is  nothing  true  but  heaven. 

May  31,  1919. 


— The  best  that  is  in  man  is  sometimes  brought  out  by  the 
trying  test  of  trouble. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  101 


CALLING 

Come  where  myriads  of  golden  poppies  grow, 
Come  where  the  landscape  is  a  dream  of  delight; 

Where  the  mocking  bird  sings  and  the  soft  winds  blow, 
When  the  moon  sinks  low  in  the  silence  of  night. 

Come  where  the  heart  would  forever  fondly  be, 
Come  where  the  beauty  enchants  the  human  soul; 

Where  the  rainbow  unites  the  sky  with  the  sea, 
And  the  shores  are  swept  as  the  blue  billows  roll. 

Come  where  the  murmur  of  the  waves  linger  on, 
Come  where  the  shadows  of  the  dying  day  falls 

On  the  fading  footprints  of  those  that  are  gone, 
As  the  strains  of  music,  the  music  recalls. 

Come  where  the  foaming  surf  returns  to  the  sea, 
Come  where  the  shells  are  washed  upon  the  sand; 

Here's  where  my  mother  used  to  walk  with  me, 
But  now  sleeps  forever  in  a  far-off  land. 

"Come  with  me"  to  her  spirit  I  am  calling; 

Come  back,  where  the  ocean  once  gave  us  delight; 
But  now  upon  my  spirit  there  is  falling 

Sadness  and  sorrow  at  the  dawning  of  night. 

Santa  Monica,  California,  April,   1910. 


102  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 


POEM  OF  THE  PINES 

Oh!  beautiful  pines  of  stately  grace, 
Forever  green  and  forever  sweet; — 

The  sunlight  charms  that  enchanted  place 
Where  the  valleys  and  the  mountains  meet. 

When  the  winter  skies  are  tinted  blue, 
When  the  dark  and  angry  clouds  are  low, 

Thou  art  clothed  in  the  greenest  hue 
Beneath  the  covering  of  the  snow. 

Fantastic  frost  decorates  the  space 
Above  the  tops  of  these  lofty  trees, 

Where  the  vapors  rise  like  filmy  lace 

And   float   away   on   the   soft,   sweet   breeze. 

Calm  and  peaceful  as  a  midnight  dream, 
The  pretty  pines,  so  rich  and  gorgeous, 

Reflect  their  shade  in  the  crystal  stream, 
As  sun  and  moon  upon  them  forges. 

Serene  by  day  and  sublime  by  night, 
The  beautiful  pines  in  splendor  vie, 

And  inspire  the  soul  with  fond  delight 
As  they  lift  their  tops  toward  the  sky. 

Cascade  Mountains,  Wash.,  December,   1903. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  103 

MIDNIGHT  ON  THE  DESERT 

The  Mojave  desert,  generally  conceded  to  be  incapable  of  producing  any 
vegetation,  has,  in  the  past  few  years,  become  partially  covered  with  a  species 
of  small  evergreen  bushes;  predominating  large  areas  in  green,  and  even  acres 
of  bright,  delicate  flowers  are  sometimes  seen  where  formerly  they  were  utterly 
unknown.  But  the  general  surface  is  void  of  all  vegetation — is  perfectly 
desiccated — and  the  barren  hills  and  mountains  remain  unchanged  and  un 
changeable  by  the  cycles  of  time. 

Sublime  and  still  are  the  hours  of  night 
That  kindle  my  soul  with  pensive  sighs, — 

The  silvery  sands  reflect  their  light 
As  soft  and  sweet  as  the  star-lit  skies. 

Vast  and  endless  thy  valleys  appear; 

Bleak  and  barren  thy  hilltops  seem; 
Yet  ever  impressive,  ever  dear 

As  the  memories  of  some  sweet  dream. 

No  trace  of  the  day's  disturbing  breeze 

Remains  upon  the  ambient  space, — 
Like  calm  that  follows  the  restless  seas, 

Sweet  quiet  pervades  this  lonely  place. 

To  hear  a  sound  in  this  arid  land 

Where  neither  reptiles,  beasts  nor  birds  dwell, 
Would  portray  life  in  a  lifeless  sand 

And  break  the  silence  of  eternal  spell. 

Perchance  some  little  bush  may  be  seen 

Venturing  upon  the  hills  of  brown, 
Pretending  to  clothe  their  sides  in  green 

While  they  look  on  in  defiant  frown. 

Those  little  shrubs,  and  even  flowers, 

May  clothe  the  vale  and  perfume  the  air 

In  the  silent  depths  of  midnight  hours, 
While  they  forever  are  growing  there. 


104  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

But  the  gray  and  red  and  barren  peaks 
In  their  sublime  and  sacred  glory 

Remain  the  same,  as  the  soul  it  seeks 
To  fathom  their  romantic  story. 

A  lace-like  cloud  now  precludes  the  moon, 
But  will  vanish  in  the  awe  of  night, 

As  the  soul  is  caught  in  one  sweet  swoon 
In  the  silent  realm  of  this  delight. 

The  brilliant  stars  of  midnight  skies 
Reveal  the  desert  in  grand  array, 

And  adds  to  beauty,  where  beauty  lies, 

While  the  sparkling  gems  around  them  play. 

Again,  farewell  to  the  desert  dear; 

I  fain  would  defer  this  parting  long, 
Where  earth  is  tranquil  and  heaven  near, 

And  mingle  their  charms  in  one  sweet  song. 

Bagdad,  California,  January  16,  1906. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  105 

REVIEW  OF  THE  OCEAN 

(No  word  of  more  than  two  syllables.) 

When  I  leave  thee  and  return  again 
I  feel  my  absence  has  been  in  vain; 
Under  the  charm  of  thy  magic  spell 
There  is  that  solace  we  love  so  well. 

Great  volumes  rolling  up;  all  day  long 
The  waves  are  singing  a  merry  song 
To  the  sky  above  and  land  below, 
With  a  constant  roar  they  come  and  go. 

Wild  surf  is  lashing  the  sandy  shore, 
Then  follows  a  calm  we  most  adore, 
When  looking  beyond  the  ocean's  breast 
To  the  western  line  of  hazy  crest. 

Whitecaps  glisten  far  over  the  sea, 
Bringing  again  past  vistas  to  me; 
The  sun  soars  high  in  the  clear  blue  sky 
And  brightens  the  way  where  seagulls  fly. 

Endless  depths  that  no  plummet  can  sound, 
Billows  roll  up  in  a  way  profound; 
While  the  golden  sun  its  rays  impart 
To  lighten  the  sadness  of  my  heart. 

Wild  and  restless  the  dark  waters  roll, 
Sending    nautic    thrills    throughout    my    soul; 
Trackless  and  tireless  they  onward  play 
From  morning  to  night  and  night  to  day. 


106  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

Vast,  oh  vast  is  thy  endless  expanse. 
Clasping  me  close  in  thy  strange  entrance, 
As  wave  after  wave  mingles  its  spray 
With    low-lying   clouds    that    'round    thee    play. 

Westward,  westward, — do  we  know  how  far? — 
Pointing  toward  the  evening  star; 
With  thy  rolling  surface  broad  and  long, 
Stretching  to  the  high  hills  of  Hong  Kong. 

Vast,  oh!  vast  as  the  star-lit  skies 
That  with  thy  beauty  nightly  vies, 
And  on  thy  bosom  cast  their  light 
With  all  the  glory  of  silent  night! 

From  the  distant,  frigid  Arctic  shores 
To  the  South  Polar  sea's  frozen  doors, 
Is  one  boundless,  changeless  realm  divine, 
Of  wondrous  grandeur,  most  sublime. 

Oh,  could  I  render)  my  spirit  free 
In  endless  realms  of  the  dark,  deep  sea; 
I  would  forego  all  pleasure  and  strife 
And  there  conclude  the  rest  of  my  life. 

January,  1919. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  107 


AS  FLOWS  THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE 

As  flows  the  River  from  heights  to  sea, 

So  are  we  ever  onward  going; 
Toward  the  abyss  of  eternity 

The  stream  of  life  is  swiftly  flowing. 

Sad  to  think,  as  we  have  often  thought, 
When  standing  upon  the  River's  shore, 

Sparkling    waters    that    our    eyes    have    caught 
Soon  pass  us  by  to  return  no  more. 

As  flows  the  River  toward  the  sea 

And  never  returns  to  us  again, 
We  are  wondering  if  it  must  be 

That  in  oblivion  we  shall  remain. 

Perhaps,  as  by  supernal  power, 

This  water  is  returned  anew 
In  final  form  of  mist  and  shower, 

Truly  showing  what  nature  can  do. 

If  it  returns  from  heaven  above 
And  passes  through  the  channel  again, 

May  we  expect  from  infinite  love 
To  return  to  this  terrestrial  plane? 

Oh!  what  a  joyful  thought  it  would  be 

If  we  could  continue  forever, 
Like  the  rivers  flowing  to  the  sea, 

And  from  our  glory  nothing  sever. 


108  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

There  is  hope  beneath  the  breast  of  man 
That  such  perennial  joy  as  this 

Is  within  the  wise  Creator's  plan 
To  transform  us  into  constant  bliss. 

He  that  restores  the  faded  flowers 
And  controls  the  sublime  universe, 

Shall,  perhaps,  allay  all  fear  of  ours 
That  we  cannot  otherwise  disperse. 

Then  as  the  River  glides  swiftly  on 
Toward  the  unknown  depths  of  the  sea, 

We  think  of  the  many  that  have  gone 
And  resting  now  in  calm  eternity. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  109 


TRIBUTE  TO  THE  APPLE  BLOSSOMS 

Beautiful  blossoms  of  pink  and  white, 
Clustered  amidst  the  mellow  green, 

Presenting  anew  that  charming  sight 
In  early  springtime  so  often  seen. 

Exquisite  blossoms  of  apple  trees 

Appear  like  pearls  in  the  morning  light 

When  waving  with  the  soft  southern  breeze 
That  over  them  blows  both  day  and  night. 

Queen  of  the  orchard,  queen  of  flowers, 
That  charm  the  soul  and  perfume  the  air 

With  all  the  beauty  and  the  powers 
Of  infinite  grandeur  resting  there. 

Japan  boasts  of  her  cherry  blossoms, 

Hawaii  her  bouganvillia  vines, 
But  we  have  here  the  merry  blossoms 

That  they  have  not  in  tropical  climes. 

Little  humming  birds  and  honey  bees, 

Attracted  by  instinctive  reason, 
Come  from  the  distant  magnolia  trees 

And  linger  here  throughout  the  season. 

You  charm  the  soul  and  intoxicate 
The  senses  that  within  us  arise, 

While  true  heaven  you  approximate 
In  the  portrayal  of  paradise. 


110  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

Morning  dewdrops  around  you  gleaming 
Enhance  the  beauty  of  your  bowers, 

While  the  air  with  fragrance  is  teeming 
In  the  freshness  of  heav'nly  showers. 

Pure  as  the  first  blush  of  a  maiden 
Returns  the  apple  blossoms  of  Spring, 

While  winds,  with  aroma  are  laden 

With  the  sweetness  and  pleasure  they  bring. 

Southwest  Missouri,  April,  1919. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME 


SERENITY  OF  THE  CHURCHYARD 

Beneath  the  shade  of  hemlock  and  pine 
In  the  silent  churchyard  our  friends  lay, 

Where  grows  the  ivy  and  myrtle  vine 
Around  the  marble  of  white  and  gray. 

What  matters  it  now,  departed  friends, 
Whether  cold  or  warm  or  sleet  or  snow — 

Whether  wild  winds  blow  or  rain  descends 
Upon  the  vines  that  over  you  grow? 

No  day  nor  night  is  recorded  there; 

Silence  and  darkness  under  the  sod, 
Where  free  from  worry  and  free  from  care 

All  is  well  in  the  wisdom  of  God. 

Father  Time  will  not  disturb  the  lid 

That    screens    forever   your    once    fair    face; 
While  but  the  song  of  the  katydid 

Pervades  the  silence  of  this  sad  place. 

The  golden  sun  and  silvery  moon 

That  shines  upon  all  the  world  so  bright, 

Lightens  not  the  darkness  of  the  tomb, 
Nor  divides  the  day  from  constant  night. 

They  no  longer  hear  the  church  bell  chimes 
Sounding  the  call  for  vesper  meeting, — 

As  the  Hindu  his  tall  tower  climbs 
At  four  o'clock  to  sound  his  greeting. 


112  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

Then  over  the  hills  to  the  churchyard, — 
All  roads  lead  to  this  evasive  spot, 

Where  the  rich  and  poor  and  titled  bard 
Are  placed  upon  one  common  lot. 

When  the  end  of  this  life  is  reached, 
No  matter  what  has  been  our  career; 

It  matters  not  where  the  boat  is  beached 
That  landed  us  at  the  final  pier. 

If  from  the  dark  chamber  of  the  grave 
We  are  in  due  time  taken  away 

From  bondage  of  an  entombed  slave, 
Oh!  the  glory  of  that  judgment  day. 

But  this  is  as  far  as  we  can  go — 
It  is  the  end  of  our  futile  trail — 

And  it  is  as  far  as  we  can  know 
Until  God  reveals  his  unknown  vail. 

June  30,  1919. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  113 


THE  SORROW  OF  SEPARATION 

Think  of  me,  oh  fondly  think  of  me 

When    these    lines    perchance   you    stop    to    read 
If  such,  in  the  future,  there  should  be, 

As  on  the  swift  wings  of  time  you  speed. 

How  quickly  the  seasons  come  and  go; 

Springtime  and  summer  merge  into  one, 
As  the  currents  of  life  onward  flow, 

Some  passing  out,  others  just  begun. 

Our  yesterday  is  others'  today — 

Our  today  is  others'  tomorrow; 
But  what  that  will  be  we  cannot  say, 

Whether  pleasure  or  pain  or  sorrow. 

We  can  compare  the  past  and  present, 

While  the  future  to  us  is  unknown; 
But  prefer  to  dwell  on  the  pleasant 

That  down  the  river  of  life  has  flown. 

We  sometimes  see  the  trunk  of  a  tree 

Stranded  in  the  shallow  river's  bed, 
Showing  that  there  is  eternity 

When  the  tree  itself  has  long  been  dead. 

Good  men"  and  women  whom  I  love  well, 
Whose  thoughts  my  heart  with  emotions  fill, 

Have  drifted — to  where  I  cannot  tell; 

But  their  latent  love  clings  round  we  still. 


1 14  POEMS  OF  PASTIME 

Many  have  come,  but  come  not  to  stay; 

Time  is  brief  on  this  terrestrial  shore; 
Like  flowers,  they  bloom,  then  pass  away, 

But  un-like  flowers,  return  no  more! 

Men  and  women  who  wish  to  be  true 

Condemn  me  not  now  and  praise  me  then; 

All  you  might  say,  what  good  would  it  do 
By  the  stress  of  tongue  or  stress  of  pen? 

We  must  beware  of  the  little  things 
That  annoy  us  in  our  daily  tasks, 

And  upon  us  constant  trouble  brings, 
If  we  still  persist  in  wearing  masks. 

Then  let  us  try  to  be  fair  and  plain, 
Whatever  the  conditions  may  be — 

Whether  it  be  heat  or  cold  or  rain — 
As  we  sail  through  life's  turbulent  sea. 

If  there  are  two,  one  must  be  taken, 
Leaving  that  void  we  feel  at  parting 

When  the  soul,  forlorn  and  forsaken, 
Sets  the  heart  to  bitterly  smarting. 

Oh !  how  I  miss  those  pleasant  faces 
That  gleamed  with  the  preparation 

Of  beautiful  smiles  and  sweet  graces, 
Ere  "The  Sorrow  of  Separation." 

July,   1919. 


POEMS  OF  PASTIME  1 15 

FAREWELL 

Dear  friends  that  around  me  stand  on  fall, 
As  I  close  these  painful,  pensive  lines, 

My  feelings  go  out  to  one  and  all 
As  gems  that  lie  in  the  richest  mines. 

If  from  these  unpretentious  pages 

You  trace  the  thread  of  a  sacred  tie, 
May  it  remain  in  after  ages 

A  silent  bond  between  you  and  I. 

Ships  that  anchor  on  the  ocean's  shore 
May  remain  together  months  and  years, 

Then  sail  far  away  to  meet  no  more 
Except  in  the  act  of  shedding  tears. 

How  oft  we  think  of  some  word  spoken, 

Or  a  kindly  deed  done  by  a  friend, 
That  remains  as  a  sacred  token 

As  past  and  present  serenely  blend. 

If  we  could  prolong  the  walk  of  life 

And  continue  in  eternal  youth, 
It  would  defeat  the  poignance  of  strife 

And  teach  us  how  to  regard  the  truth. 

But  our  friendships  are  brief  and  fragile, 

Firmly  woven  by  that  magic  spell 
When  we  are  young  and  strong  and  agile, 

Then  comes  the  sad  and  final  farewell. 

Like    the    shifting    winds    and    drifting    sands, 

Divided;  for  where  we  cannot  tell; 
Some  to  our  graves,  some  to  foreign  lands, 

But  to  all,  at  last,  farewell,  farewell. 

««3O" 


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